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EECOLLECTIONS 

OP 

MY  CHILDHOOD, 

AND 

OTHER  STORIES. 

BY 

GRACE  GREENWOOD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "history  OF  MY  PETS." 
WITH  ENGRAVINGS  FROM  DESIGNS  BY  BILLINGS. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by 
Sara  J.  Clarke, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Stereotyped  by 
HOBART   &  ROBBINS, 
BOSTON. 


13 


UNA   AND   JULIAN  HAWTHORNE, 
HORACE  AND  GEORGE  MANN, 

I  AM  mOUD  AND  HAPPY  TO  DEDICATE  THIS  VOLUME. 

GRACE  GREENWOOD. 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arclnive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/recollectionsofmOOgree_0 


PREFACE. 


to  the  mothers  of  the  children  into  whose 
hands  this  book  may  fall. 

My  Friends  :  — 

Many  times,  while  writing  this  little  volume  of 
stories,  I  have  seemed  to  feel  your  eyes  upon  me, 
in  a  look  so  serious,  so  searching,  that  my  heart 
almost  quailed  under  it.  I  have  felt,  more  deeply 
than  I  can  tell,  that  I  was  to  be  judged  not  alone 
by  literary  umpires,  by  professional  critics,  but 
by  the  unbiased  reason,  the  quick  conscience,  the 
jealous  watchfulness,  the  wondrous  instincts,  of 
your  maternal  hearts. 

As  a  practical  florist  would  watch  keenly,  if 
not  distrustfully,  a  young  gardener,  in  his  first 
essays  at  binding  up  rose-trees,  watering  and  prop- 
ping lilies,  and  training  tender  young  vines,  —  so, 
but  with  infinitely  deeper  anxieties,  must  you 
regard  one  like  me,  a  stranger  in  your  conserva- 


VI 


PREFACE. 


tory  of  fair  soul-flowers,  newly  iblossomed  out  of 
the  great  life  of  God,  seeking  to  stay  with  some 
rude  support  the  luxuriant  growth  and  affluent 
flowering  of  childish  affectionSj  to  nourish  the  pure 
white  bloom  of  earliest  thought,  to  train  those  beau- 
tiful vine-like  instincts  of  faith  and  holiness  which, 
even  undirected,  creep  blindly  toward  heaven.  As 
Eve  learned  horticulture  of  the  angels  in  Eden,  so, 
in  the  life  of  maternal  love,  have  you  been  divinely 
taught  to  rear  your  plants  of  immortality.  Yet  do 
not  distrust  one  who  but  seeks,  as  a  subordinate,  to 
aid  you  in  your  labors.  She  may  go  about  her 
wwk  with  a 'prentice  hand,"  all  too  unskilful, 
but,  surely,  neither  rash  nor  ungentle. 

Aside  from  the  dear  love  I  bear  them,  I  have  a 
genuine  reverence  for  children,  —  for  that  open- 
browed  innocence,  that  simple  trust,  that  utter 
unworldliness,  which  once  drew  them  into  the  arms 
of  Jesus,  and  called  from  his  lips  that  blessing 
which  is  the  seal  of  his  divinity  to  the  heart  of  a 
mother.  I  look  upon  a  joyous  group  of  children, 
not  envying  them  their  careless  happiness,  with  the 
sad  retrospective  feeling  which  murmurs,  ''I,  too, 
dwelt  in  Arcadia;  " — but,  regarding  their  purity, 


-N  PREFACE.  vn 

I  say,  with  a  sort  of  grateful  pride,  Have  I  not 
been  as  one  of  these  ?  Did  I  not  also  inherit  the 
blessing?" 

I  have  faith  to  believe  that  this  book  will  speak 
to  the  hearts  of  children,  because,  in  writing  it,  I 
truly  lived  again  the  life  of  my  childhood ;  my 
heart  was  dismayed  anew  at  its  little  dangers,  and 
thrilled  by  its  little  joys ;  it  bled  again  with  its 
sharp  little  sorrows,  where  the  later,  deeper  wounds 
of  womanhood  were  healed  forever. 

It  may  be  I  have  written  too  much  as  a  child, — 
too  impulsively  and  inconsiderately.  You  may  think 
the  mirth  of  some  portions  of  the  book  rather  too 
free  and  wild.  I  can  only  reply  that  my  humor  is 
not  under  my  control;  it  plays  fantastic  tricks" 
on  its  own  responsibility,  in  defiance  of  good  sober 
sense  and  the  nice  rules  of  propriety. 

For  the  homely  democratic  sentiments  scattered 
through  the  volume  I  make  no  apology;  I  will 
stand  by  them  at  all  times.  The  religious  senti- 
ments are  alike  those  of  my  reason  and  my  heart. 
I  have  sought  to  point  my  readers  to  a  heaven  of 
peace  and  brightness,  not  of  storm  and  gloom ;  to 
inculcate  a  belief  which  may  bring  comfort  and  joy 


vni 


PKEFACE. 


to  their  young  spirits,  not  awe  and  terror; — a 
faith  as  bright,  as  free,  as  clear,  as  cheerful,  as  the 
skies,  the  birds,  the  waters  and  the  flowers,  of  my 
own  remembered  childhood. 

In  regard  to  the  language  employed,  I  have  not 
been  conscious  of  striving  after  simplicity.  I  have 
been  a  good  deal  influenced  by  the  advice  of  a  little 
girl,  who,  on  hearing  that  a  lady  was  writing  a 
juvenile  work,  said,  Do,  papa,  tell  her  not  to  talk 
to  the  children  more  childishly  than  they  ever  talk 
themselves.'' 

And  now,  dear  friends,  let  me  say  I  do  not  even 
hope  that  you  will  pronounce  my  story-book  fault- 
less ;  but,  if  you  will  only  admit  that  it  is  harm- 
less,—  that  it  will  do  some  little  good, — if  you 
will  believe  I  have  meant  well,  I  shall  be  quite 
content.  G.  G. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

THE  OLD  CIIAIR-MENDER  AND  HIS  GRAND-DAUGHTER 

THE  TORN  FROCK,  A  LITTLE  STORY  FOR  LITTLE 

GIRLS  14 

THE  RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE  .  .  .  .25 

DENNIS  o'bRIEN   34 

STRAWBERRYING  45 

TOM  Shelby's"  visit  to  the  country  .       .  55 

THE  TWO  ladies  FROM  THE  CITY       .          •  .70 

THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST            ...  80 

LITTLE  CHARLIE'S  WILL               .          •  .91 

THE  HERMIT   107 

EFFIE  grey's  SLEEP-WALKING              ,          .  •  109 

LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL      .     '     .          .          .          .  '^119.- 

JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-o'LANTERNS        \         .  .131 


RECOLLECTIONS.  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 


THE  OLD  CHAIR-MENDEE  AND  HIS 
GRAND-DAUaHTER. 

Perhaps  some  of  my  little  readers  have 
seen  in  the  country  chairs  bottomed  with 
thin  strips  of  wood,  or  woven  bark.  These 
make,  very  easy  seats,  but  do. not  last  a 
great  while.  We  had  such  chairs  in  our 
kitchen,  and  about  once  a  year  they  needed 
repairing.  There  Avas  an  old  man,  by  the 
name  of  Richards,  who  used  to  do  this 
work  for  us.  I  remember  him  now,  as 
plainly  as  though  I  had  seen  him  only  yes- 
terday. He  was  a  little  fat  man,  between 
sixty  and  seventy  years  of  age,  with  a 
good-natured,  rosy  face,  and  hair  as  white 
as  snow,  which  was  very  thick,  and  hung 
down  on  his  shoulders.    He  generally  wore 


2       R^LLECTIONS  OP  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

a  suit  of  coarse  cloth,  called  sheep's 
gray/'  and  a  brown  felt  hat,  with  a  round 
crown  and  a  wide  brim.  He  always  came 
in  a  little  unpainted  wagon,  drawn  by  a 
sorel  one-eyed  pony,  in  a  home-made 
harness  of  light  leather,  with  rope  reins. 
I  remember  that  this  pony, ,  whose  name 
was  Dolly,"  had  once  a  little  colt,  which, 
not  being  as  sober-mannered  and  lazy  as 
herself,  gave  her  more  trouble  than  pleasure. 
He  seemed  remarkably  cunning,  and  would 
often  get  on  the  blind  side  of  his  mother, 
and  keep  as  quiet  as  a  mouse,  while  the 
poor  creature  was  whinnying  for  him,  in 
great  distress. 

Mr.  Richards  lived  in  a  small  log  house, 
a  few  miles  east  of  us,  with  the  only  near 
relative  he  had  in  the  world, —  a  little 
grand- daughter,  named  Amy,  who,  from 
the  age  of  ten  years,  when  her  mother 
died,  was  her  grandfather's  housekeeper. 

Amy  Ellis  was  one  of  the  best,  as  she 
was  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  the  coun- 
try, far  and  wide.    People  called  her  a 


THE  OLD  CHAIR-MENDER.    \  3 

perfect  little  woman/'  she  was  so  active, 
so  steady  and  industrious.  She  was  strong, 
healthy  and  happy,  and  really  could  do  i^iore 
work  in  a  day  than  many  a  full-grown 
woman,  and  with  less  fuss.  She  was  not 
tall,  but  rather  stout,  like  her  grandfather  ; 
her  hands  were  hardened  by  work,  and  her 
feet  somewhat  spread  by  going  without 
shoes  in  the  summer  time  ;  but  she  had  a 
clear  brown  complexion,  rosy  cheeks,  and 
very  handsome  hazel  eyes.  Her  frocks 
and  aprons,  though  plain,  and  cut  in  rather 
an  old- womanly  way,  were  always  neat  and 
whole,  and  her  grandfather's  clothes  were 
kept  carefully  brushed  and  mended. 

I  can  see  now  that  Amy  was  a  very  won- 
derful child  ;  bat  I  own  that  there  was  a 
time  when  I  grew  tired  of  her  very  name, 
from  hearing  her  praised  so  much,  and  held 
'lip  as  a  model  for  me  to  imitate. 

Amy  had  a  good  deal  of  taste.  I  remem- 
ber that  she  used  to  train  up  ivy-vines  and 
rose-bushes  against  her  grandfather's  house, 
till  you  could  scarcely  see  the  logs.  She 


4       RECOLLECTIONS  OP  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

was  very  fond  of  her  old  grandfather,  and 
he  of  her.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  them 
working  in  the  field  and  garden  together, 
or  walking  to  church,  or  sitting  of  a  Sunday 
evening  in  the  burial-ground,  on  the  rough 
bench,  by  the  graves  of  old  Mrs.  Eichards 
and  Amy's  father  and  mother.  They  were 
too  poor  to  put  up  head-stones ;  but  they 
had  placed  boards,  with  nicely  painted 
inscriptions,  there,  and  had  planted  the 
sweet-brier  and  violets  in  great  abundance. 

I  remember  the  last  chair  which  Mr. 
Eichards  mended  for  us,  and  how  it  was 
broken.  There  was  a  certain  old  soldier,  a 
very  stout  man,  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
calling  at  our  house  and  asking  for  cider. 
He  grew  rather  troublesome,  at  last,  and  my 
mother  resolved  to  give  him  no  more,  as  he 
was  suspected  of  drinking  too  much, — 
though,  for  that  matter,  any  cider  is  too 
much.  But,  one  hot  summer  day,  he  came 
in,  and  asked  for  a  drink.  My  mother 
looked  at  him,  saw  that  he  had  not  been 
drinking,  and  that  he  was  very  tired.  So 


THE  OLD  CHAIR-MENDER. 


5 


she  went  for  the  cider  herself,  calling  to 
my  brother  William  to  hand  the  gentleman 
a  chair.  Will  was  very  mischievous,  and 
so  brought  forward  an  old  arm-chair,  the 
bottom  of  which  was  broken  in  several 
places.  Of  course,  Mr.  More,  tired  as  he 
was,  came  down  so  heaVily  that  all  gave  way 
under  him,  and  when  he  rose  the  dhair  rose 
with  him.  My  mother  returned  in  time  to 
reprove  my  brother  for  his  carelessness," 
as  she  called  it.  I  wish  I  could  believe  it 
was  carelessness,  and  no  trick.  She  then 
handed  a  brimming  tumbler  to  our  neigh- 
bor ;  he  drank  one  great  swallow,  then 
made  up  a  dreadful  face,  set  down  the  glass, 
and  hurried  angrily  out  of  the  house.  My 
mother,  much  astonished,  tasted  of  that 
which  was  left  in  the  pitcher,  and  found 
that  it  was  vinegar.  What  a  laugh  we 
children  had  at  her  carelessness !  But 
old  Mr.  More  never  again  called  at  our 
house  for  cider. 

Mr.  Richards  happened  along  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  wove  a  new  bottom  for  the  chair. 


6       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

That  time  he  brought  with  him  his  grand- 
daughter, who  was  then  between  eleven 
and  twelve  years  old.  My  sister  and  I, 
wishing  to  amuse  her,  showed  her  our  dolls  ; 
but  she  said,  How  can  you  waste  so 
many  pretty  pieces  of  calico  in  these  little 
frocks  and  aprons  f  I  would  sew  them 
together,  and  put  them  into  a  bed-quilt." 
We  took  her  to  see  our  pretty  pet  pig, 
Nuggie,"  who  lived  in  a  little  house  by 
himself,  and  was  washed  every  day  ;  and 
after  looking  at  him  a  minute,  she  said, 
"  Do  you  mean  to  keep  such  a  nice  fat  pig 
as  that^  ?  If  he  were  mine,  I  'd  have  him 
killed,  and  roast  him.'' 

I  thought  this  was  very  cruel  of  Amy, 
for  our  Nuggie  was  no  common  pig ;  he 
was  civilized  and  good-mannered,  and  we 
had  taught  him  a  great  many  cunning  tricks. 
I  afterwards  asked  my  mother  if  it  was  not 
a  hard-hearted  remark;  but  she  replied  that 
Amy  looked  more  to  the  useful  than  the 
ornamental.    Poor  Nuggie  died  that  very 


THE  OLD  CHAIR-MENDER. 


7 


summer,  of  cholera-morbus,  from  my  over- 
feeding him  with  green  apples. 

Amy  seemed  most  pleased  with  our  ducks 
and  a  pair  of  twin  calves,  which,  she  said, 
were  nearly  as  thriving  as  her  own  ;  but 
she  soon  went  into  the  house,  took  out  her 
knitting,  and  sat  down  near  her  grand- 
father. My  mother  was  maMng  some  pastry 
in  the  kitchen,  and  Mr.  Richards  was  con- 
versing with  her.  I  remember  that  he  was 
talking  of  a  neighbor  of  ours,  who,  he 
said,  was  wxU  enoitgh  off,  but' who  had  sold 
out,  "  pulled  up  stakes,''  and  started  for 
the  far-away  State  of  Ohio,  in  hopes  of 
making  his  fortune.  He  said,  As  for  me, 
I  have  lamed  '  in  whatsoever  state  I  am, 
therewith  to  be  content,'  and  all  I  want, 
here  below,  is  food  and  raiment,  and  mid- 
dling good  clothing,  and  three  meals  of 
victuals  a  day," 

"  Why,  grandfather,"  said  Amy,  does 
anybody  ask  more  than  that  ?" 

Yes,  child,"  he  answered  ;     some  folks 
take  a  notion  that  they  must  be  rich  or 
2 


8       RECOLLECTIONS  OP  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

great.  I  had  a  brother  that  never  would 
give  up  peddling  till  he  was  worth  a  thou- 
sand dollars  ;  and  my  father,  your  gre^at 
grandfather,  was  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  : 
but  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  the  happier 
for  his  greatness.  I  rather  think  that  it 
shortened  his  life,  though  he  was  a-most 
eighty  when  he  died." 

My  mother  invited  Amy  to  stay  with  us 
that  night  and  the  next  day  ;  but  she 
answered,  "  I  thank  you, —  I  cannot  possibly 
stay,  for  to-morrow  is  my  baking-day." 

When  she  was  going,  we  children  offered 
to  lend  her  some  of  our  story-books.  She 
looked  at  them  as  though  she  longed  to  take 
them  ;  then  shook  her  head,  and  said  to  my 
mother,  "  I  have  no  time  to  read  such  things 
as  these  ;  but,  if  you  could  lend  me  a  good 
cookery-book,  I  should  be  very  glad." 

The  very  autumn  after  the  visit  I  have 
described,  Mr.  Richards  was  taken  down 
with  a  fever.  The  neighbors  kindly  offered 
assistance,  and  did  all  they  could  for  him  ; 
but  he  liked  best  to  be  tended  by  Amy,  and 


THE  OLD  CHAIR-MENDER. 


9 


she  wished  to  do  all  the  nursing  for  him. 
One  afternoon,  when  he  seemed  somewhat 
better,  and  nobody,  not  even  the  doctor, 
thought  him  dangerously  ill,  it  happened 
that  Amy  was  alone  with  him.  As  she  sat 
by  his  bedside,  he  stretched  out  his  thin 
hand  and  laid  it  on  her  head,  saying,  in  a 
faint  voice,  ''Poor  Amy,  I  am  sorry  to 
leave  you ;  you  have  been  a  good  child  to 
me. '  Keep  a  good  girl,  love  God,  and  He  '11 
take  care  of  you.  You  must  n't  live  here 
all  alone  when  I  am  gone ;  but  you  '11  see 
that  somebody  takes  care  of  old  Dolly." 

''Why,  grandfather,"  said  Amy,  "you 
will  live  to  take  care  of  her  yourself." 

Mr.  Richards  was  silent  a  moment ;  then 
he  asked, 

"  Is  there  room  between  your  mother  and 
your  grandmother  for  me  ?  They  '11  have 
to  take  up  the  sweet-brier ;  but,  if  it  dies, 
maybe  you  '11  plant  another  over  your  poor 
old  grand'ther." 

"0,  grandfather,"  cried  Amy,  "don't 


10     RECOLLECTIONS  OP  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

talk  SO, —  don't !  You  will  live  a  great  many- 
years  yet,  won't  you,  dear  grandfather  ? 

Well  Amy,  I  '11  try,''  he  said  ;  ''and 
now  I  think  I  will  sleep  a  little." 

He  turned  his  face  toward  the  wall,  and 
lay  very  quiet.  Amy  sat  by  him  more  than 
an  hour  ;  then  she  went  out  softly  and  made 
him  some  nice  broth.  When  she  came  in 
with  this,  she  thought  that  he  had  slept  long 
enough  ;  so,  laying  her  hand  lightly  on  his 
shoulder,  she  said,  ''  Gome,  grandfather, 
wake  up  and  take  your  broth  before  it  gets 
cold  !"  But  he  did  not  wake.  She  stooped 
over  him,  and  when  she  saw  his  face,  she 
started  with  fear  ;  it  was  so  white,  and  the 
eyes  were  so  sunken.  She  laid  her  hand 
on  his  forehead,  and  it  was  quite  cold.  Her 
grandfather  was  dead ! 

Then  Amy  flung  herself  down  beside 
him,  wound  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and 
cried  aloud. 

It  happened  that  a  stranger  gentleman 
and  his  wife  were  at  that  moment  passing 
the  house  in  a  travelling  carriage,  and  hear- 


THE  OLD  CHAIR-MENDER.  11 

ing  the  mournful  cries  of  the  poor  girl, 
they  ahghted  and  came  in.  The  first  thai 
Amy  knewj  she  was  lifted  gently  up  from 
the  bed,  and  when  she  looked  round  she 
saw  a  lady  in  deep  mourning,  who  held  her 
in  her  arms,  and  was  striving  to  comfort 
her.  She  had  never  seen  the  sweet  face 
of  that  lady  before  ;  but  she  loved  her  at 
once,  and  clung  to  her  as  though  she  were 
her  own  mother. 

The  strangers,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple,  had 
a  little  while  before  lost  their  only  child,  a 
daughter,  about  the  age  of  Amy  ;  and  after 
hearing  Amy's  sad  story,  and  seeing  her 
lonely  condition,  they  resolved  to  befriend 
her.  They  stayed  in  the  village  near  by 
till  after  the  funeral  of  Mr.  Richards,  wait- 
ing to  take  his  grand- daughter  home  with 
them. 

When  Mr.  Temple  had  led  the  weeping 
Amy  out  of  the  little  log  house,  so  many 
years  her  dear  home,  and  handed  her  into 
his  carriage,  he  was  heard  to  tell  the  driver 
to  drive  rather  slowly,  so  as  not  to  hurry  too 


12     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

much  lazy  old  Dolly,  who  was  fastened 
behind. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple  soon  grew  to  loying 
Amy  very  much,  and  finally  adopted  her  as 
their  own  daughter.  They  were  wealthy^ 
and  thinking  that  she  should  have  a  fine 
education,  they  concluded  to  send  her  to  a 
fashionable  boarding-school.  But,  though 
Amy  was  clever,  and  proved  to  be  a  diligent 
scholar,  she  was  neither  happy  nor  healthy 
there.  She  grew  so  pale  and  languid,  at 
last,  that  her  friends  took  her  home,  and 
began  to  nurse  her,  and  give  her  medicine. 
But,  one  morning,  Mrs.  Temple  missed  her 
from  the  sick  room.  She  searched  through 
the  house,  and  at  length  found  her  in 
the  kitchen,  busy  at  the  ironing-table.  Then 
it  was  agreed  upon  that  Amy  should  do 
some  house-work  every  day,  and  study  at 
home  ;  and,  I  assure  you,  it  Avas  not  long 
before  she  was  in  fine  health  and  spirits. 

Amy  is  a  woman  now,  and  has  a  house 
of  her  own  to  manage.  She  married  a  lit- 
erary man —  a  poet,  and  a  writer  of  stories. 


THE  OLD  CHAIR-MENDER. 


13 


I  have  heard  it  said  that  she  took  him. 
instead  of  any  one  of  her  wealthy  lovers, 
because  she  knew  that,  as  his  wife,  she 
should  not  be  obliged  to  play  the  fine  lady, 
but  would  always  have  plenty  of  good  hard 
work  to  do. 


THE  TORN  FKOCK.— A  LITTLE  STOEY  FOR 
LITTLE  GIRLS. 


I AYAS  the  most  unlucky  child  in  the  world 
in  respect  to  my  clothes.  My  frocks  and 
aprons  never  kept  whole,  like  those  of  other 
little  girls,  but  somehow  went  to  pieces 
before  I  knew  it.  If  there  was  a  brier  in 
my  path,  it  was  sure  to  fasten  itself  to  my 
pantalet,  and  tear  the  trimming  off.  If 
a  nail  protruded  from  a  box,  I  was  sure  to 
come  in  contact  with  it,  and  find  it  was  too 
much  for  me.  If  a  rail  had  an  ugly  splinter, 
I  was  sure  to  undertake  to  get  over  the  - 
fence  in  that  very  place  ;  and  if  thet-e  was 
a  thorn-bush  on  my  way  from  school,  just 
as  I  was  under  full  speed,  my  skirts  were 
sure  to  be  blown  against  it,  and  awful  con- 
sequences to  follow. 

Some  people  said  that  these  sad  acci- 
dents happened  to  my  clothes  becaus(^  I 


THE  TORN  FROCK. 


15 


never  was  slow  or  thoughtful,  but  did  every- 
thing with  a  hop,  skip,  and  jump.  But  I 
knew  it  was  luck.  I  was  horn  to  have  my 
frocks  torn.  My  mother  sometimes  talked 
of  dressing  me  in  stout  brown  linen ;  but  it 
would  have  been  of  no  use.  I  don't  think 
I  should  have  been  safe  in  a  canvas  frock 
and  cassimere  pantalets. 

When  I  was  between  seven  and  eight 
years  of  age,  my  mother  went  away  from 
home,  to  spend  some  months,  and  left  us 
children  under  the  care  of  a  housekeeper.  I 
suppose  that  the  widow  Wilkins  was  a  very 
respectable,  well-meaning  woman  ;  she  kept 
the  house  neatly,  sent  us  regularly  to  school, 
and  gave  us  enough  to  eat ;  but  I  do  think 
she  was  rather  too  hard  on  me  for  tearing  my 
clothes.  She  didn't  seem  to  believe  in  it 
being  all  ill  luck.  Sometimes  I  would  steal 
slyly  into  the  house,  about  dusk,  with  a 
rent  in  my  frock  carefully  pinned  up,  hoping 
it  would  escape  her  notice  ;  but  she  never 
failed  to  spy  it  out,  and  to  be  down  upon 
me  at  once.    You  would  have  thought  that 


16     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  IMY  CHILDHOOD. 

she  mistook  me  for  her  bottle  of  hitters, 
labelled,  "  When  taken,  to  be  well  shaken," 
she  exercised  me  in  such  a  remarkable  man- 
ner ;  then  she  would  settle  me  in  my  chair, 
as  though  she  meant  that  I  never  should 
rise  again  on  any  occasion.  But  I  did  not 
care  so  much  for  these  things  as  I  did  for 
her  talk.  Such  long  lectures  as  she  would 
give  me  on  my  carelessness ;  such  awful 
warning  of  the  poverty  and  want  I  was 
bringing  on  myself;  such  dreadful  stories 
she  would  tell  of  the  melancholy  end  of 
little  girls  who  kept  on  slitting  up  "  their 
frocks  and  rending  their  pinafores  ! 

In  Me  years,  I  have  heard  women  speak 
in  public  —  lecture  and  preach,  sometimes 
talking  very  fast,  and  often  quite  loud  and 
brave  ;  but,  even  now,  as  I  look  back,  I 
think  the  >iwidow  Wilkins  was  a  wonderfiil^ 
woman  with  her  tongue. 

I  did  not  improve  under  her  severe 
rule.  4  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  rather  grew 
worse  ;  for  now,  when  I  was  careless 


THE  TORN  FROCK. 


17 


I  was  awkward,  from  fear  of  her,  and 
blundered  into  tearing  my  clothes. 

At  last,  our  mother  came  home.  How 
Nell  I  remember  that  morning !  She 
arrived  early,  came  to  our  beds,  and  waked 
us  with  her  kisses.  I  remember  ho^  she 
'  laughed  at  our  youngest,  Albert,  who  did 
not  know  her  at  first,  and  as  he  was  very 
bashful,  hid  under  the  bed-clothes,  and 
when  she  caught  him  and  pulled  him  out, 
|||id,  joyfully,  '^0,  it's  you,  mamma !  I 
thought 'twsiS  a  lady." 

I  remember  that  she  brought  the  little 
fellow  some  toys,  the  like  of  which  were 
never  seen  in  our  pai^Mof  the  country. 
There  was  a   wee  man,  called  Merry 

:  Andrew,"  with  a  mouth  on  the  broad  grin, 
and  you  had  only  to  pull  a  string  to  make 

-^ttm  'fling  out  his  legs  and  throw  up  his  arms 
'%  a  surprising  manner.  There  was  a  cob- 
bler always  mending  a  shoe  that  was  nevet 
done,  and  a  pasteboard  cuckoo,  which,  with 
a  little  squeezing,  would  send  forth  a  sound 
which  we  were  so  polite  as  to  call  singing. 


18     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

This  my  little  brother  smashed  the  next 
day,  to  see  what  made  the  noise.  But,  most 
wonderful  of  all,  was  a  village,  the  little- 
white  block-houses  all  standing  in  rows  on 
a  green  boatd,  and  with  little  figures  of  men 
and  women  which  you  could  move  about. 
There  was  a  meeting-house,  with  a  sharp 
steeple  ;  and  when  all  was  rightly  fixed,  a 
minister,  with  a  very  long  face,  was  just 
going  into  the  door,  and  the  people  were 
following  him.  But  Albert  turned  this 
minister  round,  moved  him  across  the  street, 
and  made  him  going  into  the  tavern-door, 
which  we  told  him  was  very  wrong. 

My  sister  Carrie  and  myself  received  each 
a  pretty  black-eyed  doll,  all  dressed,  and  a 
new  frock.  Such  splendid  fine-lady  dolls 
we  had  never  before  seen.  Why,  they 
actually  had  knee-joints  and  elbow-joints, 
and  red  Morocco  shoes  !  Our  frocks  were 
of  fine  buff  lawn,  figured  wdth  the  tiniest 
white  rose-buds  in  the  world  ;  and  our  mother 
made  them  in  some  wonderful  new  fashion, 


THE  TORN  FROCK. 


19 


which  almost  threw  us  into  convulsions  of 
delight. 

There  was  in  a  distant  part  of  the  yard, 
surrounding  our  house,  an  old  apple-tree, 
among  the  lower  branches  of  which  I  had  a 
favorite  seat,  which  I  used  to  reach  by  the 
help  of  a  board,  leaned  against  the  trunk 
of  the  tree.  Two  or  three  crooked  limbs 
formed  an  easy  seat,  and  one  higher  up 
made  a  nice  shelf  for  books  and  playthings. 

I  have  heard  that  the  great  poetess,  Mrs. 
Hemans,  when  a  little  girl  of  seven,  had  such 
a  perch,  where  she  read  Shakspeare.  I  never 
undertook  such  fine  reading  in  my  apple- 
tree,  but  I  read  ''The  Babes  in  the  Wood" 
and  '' Goody  Two-Shoes"  there,  with  great 
pleasure  ;  and,  though  I  was  no  genius, 
I  rather  think  I  understood  them  quite 
as  Avell  as  she  understood  her  grand  old 
Shakspeare.  On  my  shelf,  in  pleasant 
weather,  I  kept  two  rather  plainly-dressed 
cloth-dolls,  called  Polly  and  Betsy  ;  and  to 
these  I  went  to  complain  when  I  had  been 
ill-used  at  school,  or  widow  Wilkins'  scold- 


20     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

ing  had  been  more  than  I  could  bear.  I 
, liked  to  talk  to  these  two  friends,  they  lis- 
tened so  respectfully,  never  interrupting  or 
contradicting  me.  I  can't  say  that  they 
comforted  me,  as  I  was  obliged  to  say  every- 
thing for  them  ;  but  they  never  blamed  me, 
or  in  any  way  took  sides  against  me. 

When,  for  the  first  time,  I  was  dressed 
in  my  new  buff  lawn,  and  it  had  been 
admired  by  all  in  the  house,  I  felt  that  I 
really  must  give  Polly  and  Betsy  a  sight  of 
it;  and  soon  I  was  up  in  my  lofty  seat, 
spreading  out  my  fine  gown,  and  talking  of 
the  color,  the  fit,  the  ruffles  and  tucks,  in 
two  little  admiring  voices,  which  I  made 
believe  came  from  the  pink  button-hole 
mouths  of  Polly  and  Betsy.  When  they 
had  said  all  the  pretty  and  strong  words  I 
could  think  of,  I  very  uncivilly  forgot  their 
presence,  took  up  my  book,  and  began  to 
read.  The  day  was  sultry,  I  was  tired  ;  the 
story  was  an  old  one,  and,  at  last,  I  fell 
fast  asleep.  When  I  awoke,  some  time  after 
sunset,  I  found  that  one  of  my  mischievous 


\ 


THE  TORN  FROCK.  21 

brothers  had  taken  the  board  away  from  the 
tree,  and  that  I  must  get  down  as  best  I 
could.  I  was  too  proud  and  independent 
to  call  for  help,  though  I  knew  the  boys 
must  be  somewhere  near,  but  jumped  at 
once.  As  usual,  I  forgot  to  gather  my 
frock  around  me ;  and,  as  I  leaped  from  my 
perch,  there  came  an  awful  sound! — a 
sound  I  knew  too  well.  As  I  rose  from  the 
ground  and  looked  about  me,  I  found  that 
my  beautiful  new  frock  was  torn  half  across 
one  breadth,  in  that  hateful  zigzag  way 
that  my  frocks  were  always  tearing.  Of 
course,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  sit  down 
and  have  a  good  cry  ;  then  I  stole  up  to  my 
chamber  by  the  back  stairs,  took  off  my 
buff  lawn,  folded  it,  laid  it  away  in  my 
drawer,  and  put  on  an  old  gingham  frock, 
feeling  that  it  was  vastly  too  good  for  me. 

After  a  while,  I  went  down  to  supper, 
though  I  felt  sure  I  could  not  swallow  a 
mouthful.  As  I  took  my  seat  at  the  table, 
my  brother  Eufus  looked  up  from  his  bowl 
of  bread  and  milk,  and  said,     0  ho !  you  've 


22     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

come  down,  have  you  ?  I  thought  you  had 
gone  to  roost  for  the  night." 

I  wished  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and 
tell  all  to  my  mother,  but  did  not  dare,  for 
fear  she  would  punish  me,  or  give  me  what 
widow  Wilkins  had  taught  me  to  dread  a 
thousand  times  more — a  severe  scolding. 
That  night,  oh,  how  I  longed  to  have  some 
kind  fairy  come,  when  I  was  fast  asleep,  and 
nicely  darn  my  torn  frock !  I  thought,  too, 
that  the  wicked  being,  whose  name  I  never 
then  dared  to  speak,  and  even  now  would 
rather  not  mention, — that  the  evil  one  would 
not  be  so  very  bad,  after  all,  if  he  would  go 
about  sewing  tears  for  poor  unlucky  little 
girls  while  they  slept ! 

The  next  day,  at  noon,  my  mother  said 
that  I  need  not  go  back  to  school,  but  might 
go  with  her  to  spend  the  afternoon  at  a 
neighbor's  house,  a  most  pleasant  place.  I 
knew  that  she  would  tell  me  to  wear  my 
new  buflf  lawn  ;  so  I  answered,  "  I  would 
rather  go  to  school,  if  you  please."  My 
mother  was  surprised  at  this,  but  she  praised 


THE  TORN  FROCK. 


23 


me  for  being  so  fond  of  my  books.  How 
ashamed  I  felt  at  her  praises  !  That  night, 
she  told  me  that  she  had  invited  some  little 
girls  of  the  house  where  she  had  visited  to 
spend  the  next  afternoon  with  me.  In  the 
morning,  I  longed  more  than  ever  to  tell 
her  all;  I  even  began, — but  the  words 
seemed  to  choke  me,  and  I  ran  away  to 
school  without  having  confessed.  I  knew 
I  should  be  required  to  put  on  the  lawn; 
and  I  lingered  on  the  way  home,  and  paused 
a  long  time  on  the  door-step,  fearing  to  go 
in,  because  then  my  secret  must  come  out. 
At  last,  I  softly  opened  the  door,  and 
stepped  into  the  sitting-room.  My  mother  sat 
by  the  window,  sewing.  I  went  up  to  her 
so  quietly  that  she  did  not  hear  me.  In  her 
lap  lay  my  new  buff  frock,  and  she  was 
putting  the  last  stitches  into  the  nicest  piece 
of  darning  ever  done  in  the  world !  I 
started  with  both  joy  and  alarm,  and  my 
mother  looked  round  with  a  smile,  saying, 

Why,  my  little  daughter  is  late  to-day! 
and  that  was  all !     I  knelt  down  by  her 


24     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

side,  hid  my  face  in  her  lap,  had  a  hearty 
cry,  and  felt  better.  The  girls  soon  came, 
and  we  had  a  happy  afternocTn. 

My  mother  said  nothing  about  my  frock 
for  days  after,—  not  even  to  ask  how  I  had 
torn  it.  But  her  silent,  forbearing  kindness 
did  more  to  make  me  careful  in  future  than 
any  punishment  or  scolding  could  have  done. 
Yet  I  still  tore  my  frocks  occasionally  ;  and, 
even  now,  I  sometimes  tear  my  best  dresses, 
and  expect  to  tear  them,  as  long  as  I  live. 

When,  a  year  or  two  after  my  apple-tree 
adventure,  I  saw  my  sister  Sophie  cutting 
up  my  out-grown  buff  lawn  for  a  bed- 
quilt,  I  begged  a  scrap  containing  that 
nicely-darned  rent,  which  I  had  always 
thought  the  prettiest  part  of  the  frock,  and 
laid  it  carefully  away  among  my  little  treas- 
ures, where  I  kept  it  for  many  years,  as 
^^a  specimen  of  my  mother's  fine  needle- 
work," I  told  others,  but,  in  truth,  as  a 
reminder  of  her  patience  and  goodness 
toward  her  careless  and  luckless  child. 


THE  KAINBOW-^ELGEIMAaE. 

One  summer  afternoon,  when  I  was  about 
eight  years  of  age,  I  was  standing  at  an 
eastern  window,  looking  at  a  beautiful  rain- 
bow, that,  bending  from  the  sky,  seemed  to 
be  losing  itself  in  a  thick,  swampy  wood, 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  We  had 
just  had  a  violent  thunder-storm  ;  but  now 
the  dark  heavens  had  cleared  up,  a  fresh 
breeze  was  blowing  from  the  south,  the 
rose-bushes  by  the  window  were  dashing 
rain-drops  against  the  panes,  the  robins  were 
singing  merrily  from  the  cherry-trees,  and 
all  was  brighter  and  pleasanter  than  ever. 
It  happened  that  no  one  was  in  the  room 
with  me,  then,  but  my  brother  Eufus,  who 
was  just  recovering  from  a  severe  illness, 
and  who  was  sitting,  propped  up  with  pil- 
lows, in  an  easy-chair,  looking  out,  with  me, 
at  the  raiabow. 


26     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  Mt  CHILDHOOD. 

See,  brother/'  I  said,  ''it  drops  right 
down  among  the  cedars,  where  we  go  in 
the  spring  to  find  winter-greens  !" 

''Do  you  know,  Gracie,''  said  my 
brother,  with  a  very  serious  face,  "  that  if 
you  should  go  to  the  end  of  the  rainbow,  you 
would  find  there  purses  filled  with  money, 
and  great  pots  of  gold  and  silver  ?  " 

"  Is  it  truly  so  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Truly  so,"  answered  my  brother,  with 
a  smile.  Now,  I  was  a  simple-hearted  child, 
that  believed  everything  that  was  told  me, 
although  I  was  again  and  again  imposed 
upon ;  so,  without  another  word,  I  darted 
out  of  the  door,  and  set  forth  toward  the 
wood.  My  brother  called  after  me  as 
loudly  as  he  was  able,  but  I  did  not  heed 
him.  I  cared  nothing  for  the  wet  grass, 
which  was  sadly  drabbling  my  clean  frock  ; 
on  and  on  I  ran  ;  I  was  so  sure  that  I  knew 
just  where  that  rainbow  ended.  I  remem- 
ber how  glad  and  proud  I  was  in  my 
thoughts,  and  what  fine  presents  I  promised 
to  all  my  friends,  out  of  my  great  riches. 


THE  •  RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE.  27 


Father  should  have  a  pair  of  new  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles,  and  a  silver  tobacco-box. 
Grandmother  should  have  a  gold  snufF-box, 
and  silver  knitting-needles.  I  would  allow 
my  mother  two  or  three  purses  of  money, 
but  would  reserve  the  right  to  lay  it  out 
for  her,  in  gayer  dresses  and  caps  than  her 
grave  taste  would  allow  her  to  purchase. 
My  eldest  sister  should  have  a  white  horse, 
with  the  longest  possible  tail,  and  a  crim- 
son side-saddle,  with  a  silver  stirrup.  To 
my  sister  Carrie  and  myself  I  promised 
rings,  necklaces,  breast-pins,  silk  dresses 
and  false  curls,  in  great  abundance.  My 
elder  brothers  should  have  watches,  guns, 
silver  fish-hooks,  and  each  a  scarlet  soldier- 
coat,  and  a  pair  of  green  velvet  pantaloons. 
For  Albert,  the  youngest,  I  would  buy  a 
rocking-horse,,  that  should  whinny  when  he 
should  mount  it,  as  his  cuckoo  had  sung 
when  squeezed.  Carlo  should  have  a  nem 
red  Morocco  collar,  hung  with  silver  bells  ; 
and  I  even  resolved  to  furnish  a  silver  ring 
for  the  nose  of  my  pet  pig,  Nuggie. 


28     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

So  thinking,  and  laying  delightful  plans, 
almost  before  I  knew  it,  I  had  reached  the 
cedar-grove,  and  the  end  of  the  rainbow 
was  not  there  !  But  I  saw  it  shining  down 
among  the  trees  a  little  further  off ;  so  on 
and  on  I  struggled,  through  the  thick  bushes 
and  over  logs,  till  I  came  within  the  sound 
of  a  stream  which  ran  through  the  swamp. 
Then  I  thought,  ''What  if  the  rainbow 
should  come  down  right  into  the  middle  of 
that  deep,  muddy  brook! "  Ah!  but  I  was 
frightened  for  my  heavy  pots  of  gold  and 
silver,  and  my  purses  of  money.  How 
should  I  ever  find  them  there  ?  and  what  a 
time  I  should  have  getting  them  out !  I 
reached  the  bank  of  the  stream,  and  ''  the 
end  was  not  yet."  But  I  could  see  it  a 
little  way  off,  on  the  other  side.  I  crossed 
the  creek  on  a  fallen  tree,  and  still  ran  on, 
though  my  limbs  seemed  to  give  way,  and 
my  side  ached  with  fatigue.  The  woods 
grew  thicker  and  darker,  the  ground  more 
wet  and  swampy,  and  I  found,  as  many  grown 
people  had  found  before  me,  that  there  was 


THE  KAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE.  29 

rather  hard  travelling  in  a  journey  after 
riches.  Suddenly,  I  met  in  my  way  a  large 
porcupine,  who  made  himself  still  larger 
when  he  saw  me,  as  a  cross  cat  raises  its 
back,  and  makes  tails  at  a  dog.  Fearing 
that  he  would  shoot  his  sharp  quills  at  me, 
and  hit  me  all  over,  I  ran  from  him  as 
fast  as  my  tired  feet  would  carry  me.  In 
my  fright  and*  hurry,  I  forgot  to  keep  my 
eye  on  the  rainbow,  as  I  had  done  before  ; 
and  when,  at  last,  I  remembered  and  looked 
for  it,  'twas  nowhere  in  sight !  I  suppose 
because  it  had  quite  faded  away.  When  I 
saw  that  it  was  indeed  gone,  I  burst  into 
tears ;  for  I  had  lost  all  my  treasures,  and 
had  nothing  to  show  for  my  pilgrimage  but 
muddy  feet,  and  a  wet  and  torn  frock.  So 
I  set  out  for  home.  But  I  soon  found  that 
my  troubles  had  only  begun ;  I  could  not 
find  my  way  ;  I  was  lost.  I  could  not  tell 
which  was  east  or  west,  north  or  south,  but 
wandered  about,  here  and  there,  crying  and 
calling,  though  I  knew  that  no  one  could  hear 
zne.    All  at  once,  I  heard  voices  shouting 


30     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

and  hallooing  ;  but,  instead  of  being  rejoiced 
at  this,  I  was  frightened,  fearing  that  the 
Indians  were  upon  me  !  I  had  never  before 
been  afraid  of  the  Onondagas,  who  were  a 
harmless,  peaceful  tribe ;  but  that  week  I 
had  been  listening  to  a  novel  called  "  The 
Wept  of  Wish-ton- wish,"  a  story  of  the  old 
Indian  wars,  which  my  mother  had  read 
aloud  to  my  invalid  brother.  I  remember 
how,  one  night,  when  I  was  thought  abed 
and  asleep,  I  was  hid  behind,  or  rather 
under,  my  brother's  great  arm-chair,  with 
ears  open  and  mouth  close  shut,  scarcely 
daring  to  breathe,  till  I  was  found  out  by 
my  sobs  for  the  death  of  poor  Uncas.  Now, 
I  thought  of  the  cruel  deeds  of  those  bloody 
Indians  of  the  old  time,  till,  getting  more 
and  more  alarmed,  I  crawled  under  some 
bushes,  by  the  side  of  a  large  log,  and  lay 
perfectly  still.  I  was  wet,  cold,  scared, — 
altogether  very  miserable  indeed ;  yet, 
when  the  voices  came  near,  I  did  not  start 
up  and  show  myself.  At  last,  I  heard  my 
own  name  called ;  but  I  remembeied  that 


THE  RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE.  81 


Indians  were  very  cunning,  and  thought 
they  might  have  found  it  out  some  way ;  so  I 
did  not  answer.  Then  came  a  voice  near 
me,  that  sounded  hke  that  of  my  eldest 
brother,  who  lived  away  from  home,  and 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  many  months; 
but  I  dared  not  believe  the  voice  was  his. 
Soon  some  one  sprang  up  on  to  the  log  by 
which  I  lay,  and  stood  there,  calling.  I 
could  not  see  his  face  ;  I  could  only  see 
the  tips  of  his  toes,  but  by  them  I  saw  that 
he  wore  a  nice  pair  of  boots,  and  not  moc- 
casins.  Yet  I  remembered  that  some 
Indians  dressed  like  white  folks.  I  knew 
a  young  chief,  who  was  quite  a  dandy ; 
who  not  only 

Got  him  a  coat  and  breeches, 
And  looked  like  a  Christian  man," 

but  actually  wore  a  fine  ruffled  shirt,  outside 
of  all.  So  I  still  kept  quiet,  till  I  heard 
shouted  over  me  a  pet  name,  which  this 
brother  had  given  me.  It  was  the  fanniest 
name  in  the  world.  I  don't  know  where 
he  found  it.  I  rather  think  he  made  it  up 
himself, — Roxana  Kusberger  ! 


32     KECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

I  knew  that  no  Indian  knew  of  the  name, 
as  it  was  a  little  family  secret ;  so  I  sprang 
up,  and  caught  my  brother  about  the  ankles. 
I  hardly  think  that  an  Onondaga  could  have 
given  a  louder  yell  than  he  gave  then  ;  and 
he  jumped  so  that  he  fell  off  the  log  down 
by  my  side.  But  nobody  was  hurt ;  and, 
after  kissing  me  till  he  had  kissed  away  all 
my  tears,  he  hoisted  me  on  to  his  shoulder, 
called  my  other  brothers,  who  were  hunt- 
ing in  different  directions,  and  we  all  set 
out  for  home. 

I  had  been  gone  nearly  three  hours,  and 
had  wandered  a  number  of  miles.  Joseph's 
coming,  and  asking  for  me,  had  first  set 
them  to  inquiring  and  searching  me  out. 

When  I  went  into  the  room  where  my 
brother  Eufus  sat,  after  I  had  had  a  bath 
and  a  change  of  dress,  he  said,  Why,  my 
poor  little  sister !  I  did  not  mean  to  send 
you  off  on  such  a  wild-goose  chase  to  the 
end  of  the  rainbow.  I  thought  you  would 
know  I  was  only  quizzing  you.'' 

I  am  afraid  I  made  up  a  naughty  face,  as 


THE  RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE.  33 


I  answered,  It  was  very  cruel  of  you, 
and  now  I  will  not  give  you  that  fine  rifle  I 
was  going  to  buy.'' 

Then  my  eldest  brother  took  me  on  his 
knee,  and  told  me  what  the  rainbow  really 
was  :  that  it  was  only  painted  air,  and  did 
not  rest  on  the  earth,  so  nobody  could  ever 
find  the  end  ;  and  that  God  had  set  it  in 
the  cloud  to  remind  him  and  us  of  his 
promise,  never  again  to  drown  the  world 
with  a  flood. 

"  0,  I  think  God's  promise  would  be  a 
beautiful  name  for  the  rainbow!"  I  said. 

Yes,"  replied  my  mother,  but  it  tells 
us  something  more  than  that  he  will  not  send 
great  floods  upon  the  earth, — it  tells  us  of 
his  beautiful  love  always  bending  over  us 
from  the  skies.  And  I  trust  that  when  my 
little  girl  sets  forth  on  a  pilgrimage  to  find 
God's  love,  she  will  be  led  by  the  rainbow 
of  his  promise  through  all  the  dark  places 
of  this  world,  to  '  treasures  laid  up  in 
heaven,'  better,  far  better  than  silver  or 
gold." 


DENNIS  O'BRIEN. 


Once,  when  I  was  quite  a  little  girl,  I 
went  to  spend  a  few  months  in  the  family 
of  my  uncle,  Colonel  Grove,  who  lived  in 
an  old  country-house,  on  a  large  farm,  some 
twenty  or  thirty  miles  from  us.  Here  I  was 
always  as  happy  and  contented  as  in  my  own 
home,  as  everybody  was  kind  to  me,  and  I 
was  allowed  to  have  pretty  much  my  own 
way. 

I  found  living  at  my  uncle's  an  Irish  lad, 
a  sort  of  boy  of  all  work,  named  Dennis 
O'Brien.  He  was  about  sixteen,  but  rather 
short  of  his  age,  with  a  broad,  ruddy  face, 
bright  blue  eyes,  and  auburn  hair.  Though 
not  handsome,  he  looked  frank  and  intelli- 
gent, and  almost  everybody  liked  him  at  first 
sight.  He  had  always  been  industrious,  — 
had  earned  enough  money  in  Ireland  to 
bring  him  to  this  country,  —  and  he  was  now 


m 


DENNIS  O'BRIEN. 


35 


working  very  hard,  and  saving  every  penny, 
so  as  to  be  able  to  send  for  his  widowed 
mother  and  young  sister.  Was  he  not  a 
noble  boy  ? 

Dennis  and  I  struck  up  a  great  friendship, 
at  once.  In  the  long  winter  evenings,  when 
there  was  company  in  the  parlor,  I  liked 
nothing  better  than  to  sit  by  the  great  kitchen 
fire,  and  listen  to  his  stories  of  Ireland,  — 
especially  of  the  Irish  fairies,  or  ''little 
folk,''  as  he  called  them.  But,  though  Den- 
nis talked  a  great  deal  at  these  times,  he  was 
never  idle,  but  was  always  making  axe- 
helves,  hoe-handles,  or  pudding-sticks, — 
which  he  sold  in  the  neighborhood,  —  or 
small  cross-bows  and  arrows  for  me,  as  I  was 
much  given  to  shooting  at  the  barn-yard 
fowls,  who  took  it  all  in  good  part,  as  they 
were  seldom  hit.  I  have  now  a  little  bow, 
and  two  arrows,  Avhittled  out  of  a  shingle  by 
the  great  General  Houston,  but  Avhich,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  do  not  come  up  to  those  my 
Irish  friend  used  to  make  for  me. 

One  evening,  after  sitting  quite  still  for 


36     BECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

some  minutes,  Dennis  asked,  in  a  humble 
way,  if  I  would  teach  him  to  read.  I  was 
astonished ;  a  boy  sixteen  years  old  not 
know  how  to  read  !  But  I  ran  for  a 
spelling-book,  and  began  at  once  to  teach 
him.  I  never  knew  any  one  learn  so  easily 
and  eagerly  as  he.  I  soon  had  him  through 
a-b  abs,  but  he  stuck  a  while  on  "  Baker.'' 
After  that,  all  seemed  smooth  sailing,  and 
we  were  in  words  of  four  and  five  syllables 
before  we  knew  it.  ,  Ah,  I  was  a  proud  girl 
about  those  days  !  I  Jiad  never  been  a  re- 
markably good  scholar  myself;  I  could 
count  up  on  my  fingers,  without  the  aid  of 
my  toes,  all  the  times  I  had  been  at  the 
head  of  the  second  class  in  spelling.  Now 
I  found  out  that  teaching  was  the  work  for 
me  —  to  sit  with  the  spelling  lesson  before 
me,  so  that  there  was  no  danger  of  my  mak- 
ing mistakes,  and  laugh  or  look  severe  at 
the  blunders  of  my  pupil.  I  began  to  put 
on  the  airs  of  a  school-ma'am,  and  begged  a 
little  old  penknife,  of  my  aunt,  with  which  I 
was  always  whitthng  hen's  quills  into  tooth- 


DENNIS  O'BRIEN. 


37 


picks,  and  calling  them  pens;  and  if  my 
pupil  had  been  a  little  smaller,  I  don't  know 
but  I  should  have  flourished  a  switch  about 
his  ears.  He  was  so  provokingly  good,  he 
never  would  have  given  me  any  occasion  to 
use  it ;  as  it  was,  he  scarcely  gave  me 
chances  of  reproving  him  enough  to  keep 
up  my  dignity. 

When  Dennis  went  from  spelling  to  read- 
ing, I  gave  him,  as  a  ''reward  of  merit," 
a  nice  "  New  England  Primer."    I  first  set 
him  to  learning  the  verses  beginning 
# 

"  In  Adam's  fall 
We  sinned  all." 

^'You  know  about  Adam's  fall,  don't 
you,  Dennis  ?  "  I  said,  very  solemnly. 

''Och,  yes.  Miss,"  he  answered;  ''he 
fell  from  an  apple-tree,  in  the  Garden  of 
Aden,  — did  n't  he  ?  " 

"  0  Dennis,"  said  I,  "I 'm  afraid  your 
folks  are  heathens." 

But  Dennis  got  his  lesson  very  well,  only 
he  would  always  say. 


38     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 


"  GoliaWs  beauteous  wife 
Made  David  seek  his  life," 

when  the  good  little  book  says  it  was 
Uriah's  wife  that  did  the  mischief. 

''Faith/'  he  would  say,  ''and  did  n't 
David  go  out  to  slay  Goliah  with  a  sling, 
and  so  sake  his  life  ?  " 

"  But  you  don't  suppose  that  little  David 
would  want  to  marry  a  big  giant's  wife  — 
you  stupid  fellow  !  " 

When  Colonel  Grove  heard  what  I  had 
been  doing,  he  prai^^d  me  very  much  ;  and 
when  he  found  how  anxious  Dennis  was  to 
learn,  he  bought  him  books,  and  sent  him 
to  the  district  school.  I  was  willing  to  let 
him  go ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  getting 
rather  tired  of  teaching ;  besides,  I  some- 
times suspected  Dennis  of  slyly  making  fun 
of  me  ;  he  certainly  did  not  stand  in  much 
awe  of  his  school-ma'am. 

After  school,  Dennis  used  often  to  draw 
me  on  a  large  sled  to  the  top  of  a  steep  hill, 
near  the  house,  then  sit  down  in  front  of  me 
to  steer  with  his  feet,  and  down  we  would 


DENNIS  O'BRIEN.  39 

go,  like  a  flash !  Ah,  how  I  enjoyed  the 
sport !  One  very  cold  evening,  he  took  me 
out,  wrapped  in  a  warm  cloak  of  my  aunt's, 
and  fearing  that  my  feet  would  be  cold,  he 
drew  this  over  them,  and  tied  it  down  with 
his  handkerchief.  We  were  hardly  started 
on  the  first  course,  before  he  happened  to 
tip  us  over,  and  I  began  to  roll  down  the 
hill.  Dennis  called  to  me  to  stop ;  but 
how  could  I  stop,  bagged  up  as  I  was  ?  I 
rolled  on,  faster  and  faster,  and  did  not 
pause  till  I  was  half  across  the  pond,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill.  * 

My  uncle  had  many  maple-trees  in  his 
wood,  from  which  he  made  sugar  every 
spring.  The  place  where  this  agreeable 
work  was  done  was  called  ''the  sugar- 
camp  ;  "  there  were  great  iron  kettles,  set 
upon  large  stones,  for  boiling  down  the  sap, 
and  bright  fires  kept  burning  under  them  ; 
there  was  a  shanty  built  of  green  hemlock 
boughs,  quite  nice  and  comfortable.  Alto- 
gether, this  sugar- camp  was  a  very  pleasant 
place.  My  aunt,  her  daughter  and  I,  visited 
5 


40     RECOLLECTIONS  OP  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

it  daily,  and  watched  my  cousin  and  Dennis 
at  their  work,  which,  though  really  hard, 
seemed  to  me  to  be  half  play. 

One  night  Dennis  happened  to  be  all 
alone  in  the  camp.  We  had  just  been 
sugaring- off,"  and  a  dozen  pans,  filled  with 
the  nice,  soft  sugar,  were  standing  in  the 
shanty.  My  uncle  had  given  Dennis  all 
that  he  could  make  after  that  day  ;  and,  as 
you  may  suppose,  the  lad  was  very  happy 
and  proud. 

Near  midnight,  he  took  his  buckets,  and 
went  to  some  trees^t  a  distance,  for  more 
sap  ;  and  when  he  came  back,  he  found  a 
number  of  young  men  and  boys  in  the 
shanty,  making  free  with  the  sugar.  He 
set  down  his  buckets,  and  boldly  shouted 
out,  "  This  way,  Colonel  Grove  !  this  way, 
Master  Harry !  Here  are  thaves  staling 
your  sugar.'' 

In  a  minute,  the  cowardly  fellows  scat' 
tered  and  ran,  crackling  through  the  brush- 
wood, and  tumbling  over  one  another  in 


DENNIS  O'bRIEN. 


41 


their  fright,  leaving  Dennis  to  laugh  at  his 
own  wit. 

How  kind  was  Dennis  always  !  I  remem- 
ber that  this  spring,  when  he  was  ploughing, 
he  would  let  me*  sit  on  the  little  round  of 
timber  before  him,  with  my  feet  on  the 
plough,  and  sometimes  even  let  me  hold  the 
reins.  I  don't  suppose  it  would  look  very 
proper  in  me  to  indulge  myself  in  that  way 
now ;  but,  to  this  day,  I  cannot  think  of 
any  kind  of  riding  half  so  pleasant. 

I  soon  had  an  opportunity  to  repay  Den- 
nis for  some  of  his  kindness.  One  day,  I 
was  sent  to  carry  him  his  dinner  to  a  distant 
jBield,  where  he  was  ploughing  with  one 
horse,  between  the  rows  of  corn.  I  found 
hun  unhitching  his  plough  to  come  home. 
He  said  the  little  boy  who  had  been  riding 
the  horse  had  been  sent  for  by  his  mother, 
and  he  must  give  up  for  the  day,  though 
the  corn  needed  ploughing  sadly.  Stop, 
Dennis  ! I  said  ;  I  '11  ride  horse  for  this 
afternoon."  He  laughed  at  me  at  first,  but 
after  a  while  agreed  to  let  me  try.    I  did 


42     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

my  best,  and  we  got  along  famously. 
Though  I  went  home  at  night  dusty,  tired, 
and  sunburned,  I  felt  that  I  had  done  my 
duty,  and  earned  my  supper  of  bread  and 
milk. 

After  this  visit,  I  did  not  see  any  more 
of  Dennis,  but  I  heard  that  at  the  end  of  the 
very  next  year  he  was  able  to  send  enough 
money  to  Ireland  to  bring  over  his  mother 
and  sister.  He  hired  a  little  place  for  them 
in  the  country,  which  he  afterwards  bought. 
Though  he  still  worked  very  hard  through 
spring,  summer,  and  fall,  he  gave  every 
spare  moment  he  could  get  to  his  books, 
and  every  winter  attended  school.  At  last, 
he  had  a  fine  education,  and  commenced  the 
study  of  the  law.  Soon  after  he  began  to 
practise,  he  moved  out  West,  and  I  heard  no 
more  of  him. 

Not  many  months  ago,  as  I  was  crossing 
the  Alleghany  Mountains,  a  friend  in  the 
cars  introduced  a  fine-looking  gentleman  to 
me  as  ''Judge  O'Brien,  of  Iowa."  The 
stranger  smiled  as  though  he  knew  me  very 


DENNIS  O'BRIEN. 


43 


well,  and  I  thought  I  had  seen  his*  pleasant 
face  before  ;  but  I  could  not  tell  when  or 
where.  There  was  a  man  sitting  near  us, 
holding  a  little  model  of  a  patent  plough  in 
his  hand.  This  Judge  O'Brien  took  for  a 
moment,  and  pointing^to  the  little  round  of 
wood  between  the  handles,  said,  "  When  I 
was  a  farmer-boy,  there  was  a  little  black- 
eyed  gypsy  of  a  child,  who  used  to  sit  be- 
fore me,  on  this  part  of  the  plough,  and  ride 
by  the  hour." 

Then  I  knew  him;  but  I  only  said, — 

What  a  sad  romp  she  must  have  been  !  " 

We  just  then  began  to  go  down  an  in-  . 
clined  plane,  very  swiftly ;  and  the  judge* 
said,  with  a  sly  smile, — 

"  This  is  very  fast  riding  ;  but  don't  you 
think  it  is  pleasanter  to  slide  down  a  steep 
hill,  on  a  sled,  in  the  winter  time  ?  " 

''Yes,  Dennis,"  I  answered,  laughing, 
''if  you  don't  let  some  awkward  fellow  tie  ^ 
you  up,  tip  you  over,  and  dump  you  down 
hill,  like  a  bag  of  potatoes  !  " 

After  that,  we  had  a  long,  lively  talk 


44     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

about  old  times ;  and  then  my  friend  told 
me  of  his  success  in  the  West ;  how  he  had 
made  quite  a  fortune,  had  been  appointed 
judge,  and  had  married  ''the  best  wife  in 
the  world." 

''I  thank  God,"  he  said,  ''for  bringing 
me  to  America,  and  giving  me  such 
friends." 

But  Dennis  O'Brien  would  never  have 
had  such  friends,  if  he  had  not  himself  been 
so  good,  so  faithful,  and  industrious. 


STEAWBERRYINa. 


One  pleasant  Saturday 5  in  June,  when  I 
was  about  ten  years  of  age,  and  my  sister 
Carrie  twelve,  we  had  an  unexpected  visit 
from  a  little,  girl  of  the  village, —  Susan 
Smith,  the  merchant's  daughter.  We  were 
happy  to  see  her,  but  v/e  really  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  her.  She  was  no 
older  than  Carrie,  and  small  of  her  age, 
but  in  her  own  opinion  quite  too  much  of 
a  woman  to  play  with  dolls,  though  we  had 
a  pretty  little  house  fitted  up  with  every^ 
convenience  (it  had  once  been  the  smoke- 
hou-se),  and  containing  no  less  than  fourteen 
inhabitants,  of  all  sizes  and  conditions. 
She  was  quite  too  grand  to  take  any  notice 
of  our  pet  dogs,  cats,  ducks  or  chickens, 
aij^J  too  much  of  a  little  coward  to  mount 
Milly,  and  take  a  good  gallop.  At  length, 
my  mother  proposed  that  we  should  go  after 

9F 


46     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

strawberries,  to  a  meadow,  about  a  mile 
distant.  We  joyfully  agreed,  and  started 
off  at  once,  with  our  baskets  on  our  arms  ; 
all  three, —  or  rather  four,  for  Carlo,  the 
pointer,  was  with  us, —  as  merry  and  noisy 
as  we  could  well  be.  Susan  Smith  said  a 
great  many  bright  things ;  at  least,  she 
/  laughed  at  them  a  good  deal,  and  Carrie 
and  I  thought  it  no  more  than  polite  to 
kugh  also.  She  had  a  brother  Sam,  of 
whom  she  was  very  proud,  and  she  talked 
about  him  nearly  all  the  way.  It  was  yery 
amiable  in  her  to  love  her  brother  ;  but, 
between  you  and  me,  dear  children,  there 
are  some  better  young  men  in  the  world 
than  Sam  Smith.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
he  was  a  wild,  idle  fellow,  that  nobody 
knew  much  good  of.  As  we  were  passing 
a  field  where  my  brothers  were  hoeing 
corn,  Susan  exclaimed,  ^'  Why,  do  your 
brothers  do  such  work  as  that  ?  Our  Sam 
tends  store  in  the  day-time,  and,  in  the 
evening,  he  dresses  up,  oh,  so  fine !  and 
goes  to  parties  and  balls." 


STRAWBERRYING. 


47 


"Isn't  it  wicked  to  go  to  balls  ?"  I  asked. 
"  My  Sunday-school  teacher  says  it  is/' 

"  Why/'  answered  Sasan,  looking  very 
nmch  astonished  at  my  stupidity,  didn't 
I  tell  you  our  Sam  goes  to  balls  ? — and  our 
Sam  can't  sin." 

After  crossing  our  farm,  and  passing 
through  a  piece  of  woods,  we  came  upon 
the  strawberry-plot.  We  had  never  found 
a  great  many  here  before,  but  this  season 
they  were  very  plentiful.  We  had  only  to 
part  the  high  grass  to  find  the  ground  all 
red  with  the  ripe,  luscious  fruit.  Sister 
and  I  went  to  work  in  good  earnest,  saying 
how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  take  home  our 
baskets  quite  full ;  but  Susan  soon  com- 
plained of  being  tired.  She  would  pick 
away  diligently  for  a  little  while,  and 
then  lie  down  in  the  grass  and  eat  all  she 
had  gathered.  At  last,  as  she  lay  looking 
up  into  the  sky,  she  called  to  us  to  stop, 
and  start  for  home,  as  a  storm-  was  surely 
coming  on.  We  saw  that  the  clouds  were 
rolling  up,  dark  and  threatening ;  but  our 


48     KECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

baskets  were  not  quite  filled, — so  we  only- 
picked  the  faster.  Before  we  knew  it,  the 
rain  was  upon  us.  It  was  one  of  those 
pelting,  soaking  showers,  which  drive  you 
to  seek  any  shelter.  There  was  but  one 
house  in  sight, —  a  little  log  building,  on  the 
edge  of  the  wood, —  and  to  this  we  ran.  The 
woman  who  came  to  the  door  knew  my  sis- 
ter and  me  at  once  ;  she  had  often  spun 
yarn  and  woven  linen  for  our  mother.  She 
took  us  into  her  one  room,  very  kindly 
kindled  a  fire,  and  began  to  take  off  our 
wet  clothes,  declaring  that  we  hadn't  ''a 
dry  thread  to  our  backs."  She  was  all 
alone,  she  said,  as  her  husband  (her  old 
man,''  she  called  him)  was  '^down  to  the 
village,"  and  her  son  Jerry  had  gone  "  to 
his  grandther's;''  so  we  need  not  be  afraid. 
But  the  poor  woman  was  soon  puzzled  what 
to  do.  She  had  never  had  any  little  girls,  and 
had  but  two  spare  dresses  of  her  own, —  one 
for  my  sister,  and  one  for  Susan.  What 
was  I  to  wear,  while  my  clothes  were  dry- 
ing?   Presently,  she  began  to  laugh;  she 


STRAWBERETlNa. 


49 


was  a  good-natured,  funny  old  lady,  and 
jBaid  she  thought  I  would  "  become''  Jerry's 
new  summer  suit.  I  refused  to  put  it  on, 
at  first,  saying  I  would  rather  go  to  bed  for 
an  hour  or  two  ;  but  she  said  she  didn't 
want  her  nice  bed  tumbled  and  torn  to 
pieces  by  children.  I  shall  always  suspect 
that  worthy  Mrs.  Jones  really  wanted  the 
fun  of  seeing  me  dressed  in  boy's  clothes. 
Any  how,  she  had  her  way,  and  I  was  soon 
rigged  out  in  a  pair  of  fine  tow  pantaloons, 
and  a  long-tailed  striped  linen  coat,  with 
great,  shiny  brass  buttons. 

Jerry  was  a  big  boy,  of  thirteen  or  four- 
teen,—  so  his  clothes  were  not  a  very  nice 
fit.  The  coat-tails  nearly  touched  the  floor, 
and  Mrs.  Jones  was  obhged  to  roll  up  the 
cuffs  several  inches  to  get  at  my  hands ; 
indeed,  I  felt  very  much  at  large  in  the 
whole  suit. 

0,  how  Susan  and  Carrie  laughed  at  me  ! 
But  they  could  not  say  much,  for  Mrs. 
Jones  was  a  very  stout  person,  and  they 
looked  like  two  old  women  in  her  great 


50     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 


brown  gingham  frocks,  with  the  big  balloon 
sleeves.  Mrs.  Jones  told  us  that  we  should 
not  make  sport  of  one  another ;  but  I  sus- 
pected her  of  sticking  her  head  into  the 
cupboard,  two  or  three  times,  to  hide  her 
own  laughter. 

"When  she  had  made  us  "  all  nice  and 
comfortable/'  as  she  said,  she  set  out  a 
little  round  table,  covered  it  with  a  white 
cloth,  placed  on  it  some  excellent  bread  and 
milk,  hulled  some  of  our  strawberries,  and 
invited  us  to  sit  up  and  take  our  dinner. 
She  had  had  hers  two  hours  before.  We 
gladly  obeyed.  I  helped  the  ladies  politely, 
and  behaved  like  a  gentleman,  as  well  as  I 
knew  how.  I  remember  how  Susan  Smith 
took  up  her  pewter  spoon,  turned  it  over 
and  over,  and  looked  at  it  very  contemptu- 
ously, which  was  certainly  rather  ungrate- 
ful and  uncivil.  Mrs.  Jones  did  not  seem 
to  mind  it,  but,  as  the  rain  had  now  ceased, 
she  took  our  wet  and  soiled  frocks,  and  car- 
ried them  to  a  stream,  a  little  way  off,  to 
rinse  them.  When  she  was  gone,  Susan  com- 


STRAWBERRYING. 


51 


plained  that  she  could  hardly  lift  her  spoon, 
and  that  she  tasted  the  tin  of  her  bright 
basin.  She  said  she  had  never  been  used 
to  eating  bread  and  milk  out  of  anything 
but  a  china  bowl,  with  a  silver  spoon.  I 
answered  that  these  spoons  were  the  best  that 
Mrs.  Jones  had  ;  that  they  were  clean  and 
bright,  and  that  I  did  not  see  but  that  bread 
and  milk  and  strawberries  tasted  as  good 
eaten  from  a  tin  basin  as  from  grand- 
mother's silver  i porringer.  That  hushed 
her  at  once.  I  don't  think  she  had  ever 
heard  of  a  silver  porringer  before.  I  did 
not  see  but  that  Miss  Susan  ate  as  heartily 
as  sister  and  myself.  Fine  ladies  do  not 
always  have  dehcate  appetites. 

When  the  dinner-dishes  had  been  cleared 
away,  and  our  frocks  were  spread  on  chairs 
before  the  fire  to  dry,  Mrs.  Jones  went  up 
the  ladder-stairs  to  her  weaving,  and  left 
us  to  amuse  ourselves  as  we  could.  I  had 
lost  my  shame-facedness,  and  felt  in  v^ry 
good  spirits  since  dinner.  Seeing  an  old 
hat  of  Jerry's  hanging  against  the  wall,  I 


U.  OF  ILL  LIB. 


52     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

took  it  down,  placed  it  on  my  head,  a  little 
to  one  side,  and  began  striding  up  and  down 
the  room,  thrusting  my  hands  into  my 
pockets,  and  talking  large,  in  a  way  very 
unbecoming  to  a  little  girl,  but  which  I 
thought  only  brave  and  manly  in  a  boy.  For- 
getting the  length  of  the  pantaloons,  I  some- 
how got  entangled,  and  tripped  myself  up. 
But  I  was  on  my  feet  in  an  instant,  as  large 
as  ever. 

The  girls,  who  were  more  prudent  and 
kept  their  seats,  laughed  heartily  at  my 
fall. 

I  think,  sir,''  said  my  sister,  that  you 
would  walk  more  gracefully  if  you  would 
shorten  your  suspenders  —  don't  you  say  so 
too,  Susan  ? " 

You  be  quiet,  old  ladies!"  said  I; 
what  do  you  know  about  suspenders,  and 
such  things  ?  " 

Just  at  that  moment  Carlo  set  up  a  louA 
barking,  and  I  heard  a  Avhistle  and  a  step 
near  the  door  !  I  gave  but  one  bound,  and 
was  under  the  bed  !    The  quilt  came  down 


STRAWBERRYINa. 


53 


low  in  front,  and  I  felt  quite  safe.  But, 
alas !  those  unlucky  long  coat-tails,  with 
their  shining  buttons,  betrayed  me !  They 
were  partly  left  out,  and  Jerry  Jones — for  it 
was  he  who  came  in  —  saw  them  at  once. 
''Why,  how  came  my  Sunday-coat  under 
the  bed?  "  he  said,  and,  stooping  down,  he 
pulled  me  from  my  hiding-place.  "  Hello ! 
he  cried,  ''  what  fellow  is  here,  rigged  out 
in  my  clothes  ?  Let  me  see  who  you  are, 
won't  you  ?  "  And,  while  I  struggled  and 
cried,  he  laughingly  pulled  my  hands  away 
from  my  face.  ''Why,"  said  he,  "this 
boy  is  a  girl!  0,  I  know  you  now!  But 
don't  cry ;  this  kind  of  dress  is  becomiiig 
to  you,  and  my  new  suit  never  looked  so 
handsome  before, —  don't  cry  !  " 

"Jerry  Jones,  do  you  clear  out  of  the 
house  ! "  called  his  mother  from  the  top  of 
the  ladder.  Jerry  did  not  wait  for  another 
word,  but  took  himself  off.  He  stayed  in 
the  garden  till  our  clothes  were  ironed,  and 
we  started  for  home,  when  he  asked  leave  to 
go  with  us,  and  carry  our  baskets.    All  the 


54     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

way,  though  he  talked  constantly,  he  never 
once  spoke  of  catching  me  in  such  a  ridicu- 
lous dress  ;  and  though  I  was  so  ashamed 
I  could  hardly  say  a  word,  even  to  thank 
him  when  he  helped  me  over  a  fence,  or  a 
wet  place,  I  liked  him,  and  always  liked 
him,  from  that  day  to  this.  Mrs.  Jones,  too, 
that  good,  kind  woman,  I  must  always  think 
pleasantly  of  her.  She  and  her  "  old  man'' 
were  living  on  the  same  place,  but  in  a  new 
house,  when  I  heard  about  them  last.  By 
great  industry  and  economy,  they  were  able 
to  educate  Jerry,  to  send  him  to  college. 
He  is  a  minister  now;  but,  for  all  that,  I 
don't  believe  he  has  grown  too  solemn  to 
laugh  whenever  he  remembers  pulling  me 
out  from  under  the  bed,  by  the  long  skirts 
of  his  striped  linen  coat. 


TOM  SHELBY'S  VISIT  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

Near  the  home  of  my  early  childhood, 
there  lived  a  plain  but  wealthy  farmer,  by 
the  name  of  Austin.  He  was  a  pleasant, 
intelligent  man,  and  his  wife  was  an  excel- 
lent woman.  They  had  a  fine  family  of 
children,  —  from  Ann,  about  sixteen,  down 
to  Johnny,  a  bright  little  rogue  of  six. 
But  the  pleasantest  and  cleverest  of  all  was 
Frank,  the  oldest  son —  a  happy,  handsome, 
hearty,  funny  fellow,  whom  everybody  liked, 
although  he  was  rather  mischievous,  and 
fond  of  playing  off  little  tricks.  More  was 
pardoned  to  him  than  to  any  one  else,  be- 
cause he  was  never  ill-natured,  even  when 
he  seemed  most  wild  and  lawless. 

Mr.  Austin  had  a  sister  married  to  a  rich  ^ 
merchant  of  the  city  of  Albany,  Mr.  Shelby, 
who  had  a  son  about  the  age  of  Frank,  a  good 
enough  boy  at  heart,  but  rather  wild  in  his 
G 


56     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

ways,  and  full  of  foolish,  fine -gentleman 
notions.  One  spring,  when  Frank  was  about 
thirteen,  he  made  a  short  visit  to  the  city, 
and  when  he  came  home,  brought  his  cousin 
with  him  to  spend  the  summer  and  fall.  It 
was  whispered  about  the  neighborhood  that 
Master  Tom  was  sent  into  the  country 
because  his  folks  could  n't  manage  him  at 
home."  I  do  not  know  that  this  was  the 
case  ;  but  very  likely  the  report  was  correct. 

I  was  very  intimate  with  Hattie  Austin, 
one  of  the  dearest  and  prettiest  playmates 
of  my  childhood,  and  happened  to  be 
making  her  a  visit  when  the  boys  arrived. 
Frank  leaped  down  the  steps  first,  embraced 
his  mother  heartily,  and  hugged  all  the 
children.  Master  Tom  Shelby  descended 
with  slow  dignity.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
suit  of  fine  blue  broadcloth  —  the  panta- 
l^ns  tightly  fitting,  and  strapped  down 
under  a  pair  of  stylish,  narrow-toed,  high- 
heeled  boots.  His  delicate  hands  were  en- 
cased in  dark  kid  gloves,  and  very  much  on 
one  side  of  his  head  he  wore  a  black  velvet 


TOM  Shelby's  visit  to  the  country.  57 

cap,  /With  a  long  dangling  tassel.  His  hair 
was  long  and  straight ;  —  by  the  way, 
Frank  could  afterwards  vex  him  very  much 
by  telling  that  it  curled  naturally  in  Albany, 
but  that  somehow  it  straightened  out  more 
and  more,  the  further  he  travelled  from 
French  hair-dressers.  I  remember  Tom 
so  plainly  because  he  was  the  first,  dandy  I 
ever  saw. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  brush  the 
dust  from  his  polished  boots  with  his  cam- 
bric handkerchief ;  then,  looking  up  to  the 
driver,  he  drawled  out,  ^'Boy,  will  you 
hand  me  down  my  dressing-case  ? 

''Yes,  grandfather,"  answered  the  good- 
natured  driver,  taking  off  that  elegant  arti- 
cle, and  the  other  baggage. 

That  afternoon,  a  number  of  the  boys  and 
girls  of  the  neighborhood  came  to  welcome 
Frank  home,  and  to  have  a  peep  at  %lq 
young  stranger.  I  never  shall  forget  the 
airs  that  fellow  gave  himself.  He  walked 
about  the  yard  where  we  were  at  play,  for 
all  the  world,  as  a  fine  peacock  struts  among 


58     BECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

a  crowd  of  pullets,  ducks,  and  young 
roosters.  How  scornfully  he  eyed  our 
homely  clothes,  and  refused  to  join  in  our 
merry  game  of  ''tag,"  saying  it  was  too 
rude  and  childish  !  Some  of  us  took  off  our 
stockings  and  shoes,  to  run  the  faster,  and 
he  looked  down  at  our  bare  feet  with  as 
much  horror  as  though  they  had  been  hoofs 
or  claws.  But  he  soon  found  out,  as  some 
great  people  had  done  before  him,  that  it 
was  tiresome  work  to  be  grand.  We  let 
him  alone,  and  he  soon  came  down  from  his 
stilts.  He  began  to  talk  about  Albany : 
''  We  do  this,''  and  "  We  have  that,  in  Al- 
bany;  "  everything  was  handsomer  and 
finer  there  than  in  the  country. 

"  Dreadful  big  of  his  Albany  !  "  said  little 
Johnny.  I  had  read  in  my  copy-book,  that 
"  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the 
town,"  and  I  told  him  so,  right  to  his  face, 
and  said  I  did  n't  think  men  had  better  set 
up  to  do  things  better  than  God. 

''I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said; 
"but  I  do  know  that  we  city  people  put  up 


TOM  Shelby's  visit  to  the  couNTifr.  59 

handsomer  buildings  than  you  country  people 
ever  dreamed  of.  My  father,  now,  lives  in 
a  great  brass  house,  with  a  brick  knocker  on 
it!" 

What  a  laugh  we  had  at  his  blunder ! 

In  the  morning,  we  all  went  to  take  a 
stroll  in  the  woods.  On  the  way,  Tom 
amused  himself,  and,  I  must  confess,  us 
also,  by  telling  of  the  tricks  that,  before  he 
left  home,  he  had  played  off  on  Frank,  who, 
he  said,  was  '^as  green  as  that  meadow,'' 
pointing  to  a  wheat-field.  He  had  made 
his  poor  visiter  drink  the  water  from  his 
finger-glass,  for  lemonade  ;  had  sent  him  to 
the  Female  Academy,  telling  him  it  was  the 
Capitol ;  and  to  an  undertaker's  to  buy  a 
new  trunk ;  and  one  evening  he  sent  him 
home  on  the  full  run,  by  pointing  to  a  watch- 
man, and  telling  him  that  after  one  appeared 
in  the  streets  all  strange  boys  were  liable 
to  be  dragged  off  to  the  watch-house. 
Frank  laughed  good-humoredly  while  Tom 
was  relating  these,  cunning  exploits;  but 
shook  his  head  once  in  a  while,  as  much  as 


60     KECOLLECTIONS  OP  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

to  say,  Wait  a  bit,  my  lad,  and  I  '11  pay 
you!" 

As  we  were  passing  through  a  cow 
pasture,  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  we  came 
upon  a  flock  of  geese,  with  a  host  of  goslings, 
and  a  fierce  old  gander  flew  at  us,  hissing 
like  a  serpent.  Tom  started  back,  and 
called  out,  Why,  Frank,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter with  that  great  white  goose,  that  it  hisses 
so?'' 

^'It  does  behave  strangely,''  said  Frank, 
quite  soberly  ;  what  can  ail  it  ?  Can  it 
he  that  it  has  gone  mad  ?  " 

In  a  moment  Tom  took  to  his  heels,  and 
did  not  stop  till  he  reached  the  wood,  rods 
away.  While  we  were  screaming  with 
laughter, ■  Frank  called  out,  ''Stop,  Tom! 
stop! — it's  only  a  gander;  you  're  the 
goose  yourself!  " 

In  the  afternoon,  Tom  brought  out  his 
fishing-tackle,  —  his  nice-jointed  rods,  his 
delicate  lines,  and  his  flies,  —  and  invited 
Frank  to  go  trouting  with  him.  Though  he 
talked  large,  as  usual,  Frank  saw  at  once 


TOM  Shelby's  visit  to  the  country.  61 

that  he  knew  little  or  nothing  of  that  sort 
of  fishing.  So  he  started  out  with  him, 
stopped  at  the  first  piece  of  water  they  came 
across,  put  his  finger  on  his  lip  in  token  of 
silence,  then  lazily  flung  himself  on  the 
grass  under  a  willow,  to  watch  the  sport. 
The  little  sheet  of  Vv^ater  was  nothing  but  a 
frog-pond,  weedy  and  muddy,  where  fish 
had  never  made  their  appearance.  Tom 
had  heard  that  trout  were  exceedingly  shy, 
and  went  very  softly  to  work,  never 
speaking  above  a  whisper  to  Frank.  After 
about  an  hour,  he  concluded  that  flies  were 
not  inviting  bait,  and,  by  Frank's  advice, 
used  worms  instead. 

Do'they  bite  now  ?  "  whispered  Frank, 
yawning,  for  he  had  taken  a  nice  nap  in  the 
shade  of  the  willow. 

"No,"  said  Tom,  ''but  they  begin  to 
nibble  ;  "  and  in  a  minute  after  he  cried, 
joyfully,  Now  I  have  one  !  Come,  Frank, 
and  help  me  out  with  it.  I  think  it  must  be 
a  salmon- trout." 

But  before  Frank  reached  him,  he  pulled 


62     RECOLIiECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 


up  a  great  mud-turtle,  which  he  had  hooked 
by  the  leg.  Frank  rolled  on  the  ground 
with  laughter,  and  Tom  did  not  soon  hear 
the  last  of  his  fine  salmon-trout/' 

Tlie  next  day,  however,  Frank  took  his 
cousin  to  a  real  trout  stream,  some  miles 
distant,  and  taught  him  how  to  capture  that 
most  shy  and  delicious  fish. 

Not  long  after  this,  Tom  proposed  a  hunt. 
Now,  Frank  was  a  good  shot,  but  Tom  knew 
about  as  much  of  hunting  as  he  had  known 
of  trouting.  Yet  you  would  have  supposed, 
from  his  way  of  talking,  that  he  was  a-  per- 
fect Nimrod  —  a  mighty  hunter."  He 
had  an  elegant  little  fowling-piece,  and  all 
the  accoutrements,  even  to  a  hunting-jacket 
of  the  latest  English  fashion.  But,  alas !  his 
fine  outfit  brought  him  neither  skill  nor 
luck  ;  he  popped  away  incessantly,  and,  as 
the  boys  say,  "  killed  nothing  but  powder." 
At  last,  Frank,  who  had  separated  from  hiig, 
and  had  nearly  filled  his  game-bag  with 
squirrels  and  partridges,  took  pity  on  the 
poor  fellow.    He  happened,  himself,  to  have 


TOM  Shelby's  visit  to  the  country.  63 

■* 

shot  an  old  owl,  and,  climbing  a  tree,  lie 
fixed  this  on  a  large  limb,  so  that  it  looked 
very  lifelike  and  liatural.  Then,  going  for 
Tom,  he  led  him  softly  within  sight  of  the 
game,  telling  him  that  there, was  a  big  bird 
of  some  sort,  he  might  have  for  the  shooting. 
Thinking  that  a  big  bird  would  require  a 
big  charge,  Tom  put  in  a  double  quantity 
of  powder  and  shot,  and  the  consequence 
was,  that  he  was  kicked  clean  over  —  boys 
will  understand  how.  But  he  brought  down 
the  owl,  and  never  would  believe  but  that 
he  had  the  first  shot  at  him. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Mr.  Austin  said  to 
his  young  guest,  I 've  a  letter  from  your 
father,  my  boy,  and  he  tells  me  to  set  you 
to  work,  and  get  some  of  the  nonsense  out 
of  you.  I  don't  want  to  put  you  to  hard 
labor ;  you  may  do  as  you  please ;  but 
Frank,  here,  has  been  fooling  about  long 
enough,  — he  must  go  to  work." 

Tom  turned  up  his  aristocratic  nose  at 
the  thought  of  his  working  on  the  farm ; 
and  when  he  saw  .Frank  shoulder  his  hoe, 
7 


64     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILBHOOl). 

and  go  cheerfully  over  the  hill  to  the  corn- 
field, he  wondered  at  and  pitied  him. 

But  Tom  had  somehow,  become  attached 
to  his  good-natured  playmate  ;  and,  as  he  : 
idled  away  hour  after  hour  of  the  pleasant 
morning,  through  the  house  and  about  the 
yard,  he  found  himself  very  lonely  and 
stupid. 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  of  the 
second  day,  he  felt  that  he  really  could  not 
stand  it  any  longer ;  so  paid  a  visit  to  the 
corn-field,  ''just  to  see  how  they  got  along,'' 
he  said.  After  watching  his  cousin  a  while, 
he  went  to  Mr.  Austin,  and  asked  for  a 
hoe,  —  ''just  to  help  Frank  a  little.''  His 
uncle  gave  him  one,  with  a  smile,  telhng 
him  to  be  careful  of  his  fine  clothes. 
Though  Tom  found  that  this  work  was  even 
harder  than  fishing  for  trout  in  a  frog-pond, 
—  though  it  made  his  back  ache,  and  almost 
bhstered  his  hands,  —  yet  he  liked  it,- and 
hoed  his  row  bravely.  The  next  morning, 
after  an  early  breakfast,  he  drew  on  an  old 
pair  of  boots,  rolled  up  his  pantaloons, 


TOM  SHELBY'S  VISIT  TO  THE  COlINTRY.  65 

shouldered  his  hoe,  and  set  out  with  the 
other  workmen,  feeling  very  stout  and  im- 
portant. In  th^  course  of  the  week,  he 
found  in  his  room  a  regular  farmer's  suit  of 
clothes,  —  more  easy  than  elegant,  —  of 
strong,  but  jcooI  material.  These  he  put  on 
with  much  pleasure  ;  indeed,  it  was  soon 
hard  to  persuade  him  to  dress  himself  in 
broadcloth,  even  to  go  to  church.  He  said 
that,  in  tow  jacket  and  corduroy  trousers,  a 
man  had  room,  —  a  man  could  do  as  he 
pleased,  —  and  that  a  good  straw  hat  was 
the  thing  for  a  man,  after  all. 

Mr.  Austin  gave  his  nephew  a  small  piece 
of  land  in  the  corn-field,  for  a  melon-patch. 
Tom  planted  and  cultivated  it,  and  was  very 
proud  of  the  thriving  condition  of  his  water- 
melons and  canteleups.  It  happened  that  a 
neighboring  farmer  had  a  fine  melon-patch 
in  the  very  next  field.  This  Mr.  Johnson 
was  a  cross,  disobliging  man,  on  whom  the 
boys  loved  to  play  little  mischievous  tricks, 
—  so  I  suppose  Tom  did  not  think  he  was 
proposing  anything  wicked,  when  he  said 


66     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

to  his  cousin,  one  evening  in  September, 
Frank,  let's  go,  to-night,  and  hook  old 

Johnson's  water-melons !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  steal  them,  Tom  ?  "  asked 

Frank. 

"  Why,  yes  ;  if  you  've  a  mind  to  call  a 
little  fun  by  such  a  bard  name.  I  don't  see, 
for  my  part,  what  harm  there  could  be  in 
taking  a  few  water-melons  from  such  a  stingy 
old  fellow." 

Frank,  with  all  his  wildness,  had  never 
been  guilty  of  a  mean  or  a  dishonest  act ; 
yet  now,  after  thinking  a  moment,  he  agreed 
to  go  with  his  cousin,  but  persuaded  him  to 
wait  till  the  moon  was  down,  and  it  was 
quite  dark.  Then,  by  a  roundabout  way 
throu«:h  the  woods,  he  led  Tom  to  his  own 
melon-patchy  where  he  told  him  to  hurry  and 
fill  the  basket,  while  he  kept  watch  at  a 
little  distance.  He  afterwards  said  that  he 
never  came  so  near  dying  with  silent  laugh- 
ter, as  he  did  when  he  saw  Tom  creeping 
softly  about  on  all  fours,  stealing  his  own 
melons,  thinking  that  they  were  Mr.  John- 


TOM  Shelby's  visit  to  the  country.  67 

son's  !  At  last,  hearing  some  noise  near, — 
a  cow,  or  a  colt,  perhaps,  —  he  shouted. 

Run,  Tom. !  run  !  Look  out  for  old  John- 
son !  "  —  and  started  for  home,  at  full  speed. 
Tom  followed  fast,  breathing  hard,  and 
dropping  a  melon  or  two,  in  his  fright:  But 
he  reached  the  house  with  three  fine  ones, 
of  which  he  ate  enough  to  make  him  so  ill 
that  he  was  obliged  to  lie  abed  and  take 
medicine  the  next  forenoon.  At  night, 
when  he  was  much  better,  Frank  confessed 
the  trick  he  had  played  off;  and,  I  assure 
you,  the  poor  fellow  made  up  a  worse 
face  at  the  story  than  he  had  at  the 
bitter  dose  of  the  morning.  Yet  he  did  not 
keep  anger  long,  and  he  never  forgot  the 
hard  lesson  he  had  learned,  —  never  at- 
tempted to  steal  again,  even  from  himself. 

Tom  Shelby  was  more  and  more  liked, 
the  longer  he  stayed  with  the  Austins  ;  and 
in  little  more  than  half  a  year  he  grew  to 
be  a  sensible,  industrious,  agreeable  lad. 
So  much  did  he  become  attached  to  his 
cousin,  that  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to 


N 

68     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

return  home  without  him  ;  and  it  was  jBnally 
agreed  that  Frank  should  be  sent  to  one  of 
the  excellent  schools  in  Albany,  and  that 
the  two  friends,  if  they  remained  good  boys, 
should  be  educated  together. 

I  remember  the  day  they  left  us.  They 
were  to  go  by  stage  some  twenty  miles,  to 
the  town  of  S  It  was  a  keen  morn- 
ing in  November,  yet  these  two  hardy, 
ruddy-cheeked  boys  chose  to  ride  outside, 
with  the  driver.  The  night  before,  they  had 
gone  all  about  the  neighborhood,  to  bid 
their  friends  good-by;  and  everybody,  even 
old  Johnson,  was  sorry  to  see  the  merry  lads 
go.  Tom  had  laid  out  a  generous  portion 
of  his  pocket-money  in  parting  gifts, — 
from  a  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  in  large  type, 
for  grandmother  Austin,  to  a  bag  of  painted 
marbles  for  little  Johnny.  But  to  Hattie, 
his  favorite,  he  made  half  a  dozen  handsome 
presents,  for  her  to  remember  cousin  Tom 
by,"  he  said.  If  he  could  have  known  how 
she  cried  over  them,  when  he  was  gone,  he 


TOM  Shelby's  visit  to  th^  country.  69 

would  have  been  both  glad  and  sorry,  I 
think. 

After  the  boys  had  taken  a  hearty  leave 
of  us  all,  and  clambered  to  their  seats, 
while  the  driver  was  gathering  up  the  reins, 
Tom  called  out,  ''If  any  of  you  happen  to 
meet  a  slender,  long-haired,  milky-faced 
young  dandy,  from  Albany,  who  was  about 
here  for  a  while  last  spring,  just  bid  him 
good-by  for  me,  for  I  never  shall  see^  him 
again.'' 


THE  TWO  LADIES  FROM  THE  CITY. 


It  was  near  Christmas  time,  and  Frank 
Austin  was  at  home*  for  the  holidays,  hav- 
ing with  him  his  cousin,  Tom  Shelby.  The 
friends,  now  nearly  sixteen,  were  as  full  of 
merriment,  as  fond  of  laughter,  and  all 
sorts  of  innocent  fun,  as  ever.  Ah !  such 
wild  times  as  we  all  had  together,  for  more 
than  one  of  my  brothers  might  be  counted 
on,  at  any  time,  for  any  kind  of  a  frolic. 

It  happened  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Austin 

went  to  the  town  of  S  ,  for  a  day  or 

two,  on  business,  they  said,  which  we 
suspected  meant  little  else  than  the 
purchase  of  Christmas  gifts.  They  left 
Ann,  the  eldest  daughter,  as  housekeeper. 
By  the  way,  I  have  scarcely  mentioned 
Ann.  She  was  a  kin^-hearted,  clever 
girl,  but  was  a  little  spoiled  by  reading 
novels,  and  by  some  grand  ideas  of  style 
and  fashion,  which  nobody  knew  how  she 


THE  TWO  LADIES  FROM  THE  CITY.  71 

came  by.  For  instance,  she  disliked  her 
plain  name,  and  always  wanted  to  be  called 
Antoinette.  Her  brothers  called  her  by 
that  romantic  name,  when  they  wanted 
buttons  sewed  on,  or  hats  lined ;  if  they 
wished  to  see  her  vexed,  they  called  her 
Annr;  but  they  must  make  up  their  minds  to 
be  chased  out  of  the  house  with  the  broom- 
stick, if  they  called  her  "  Nanny  J'  She 
really  loved  hard  work,  and  yet  she  was 
ashamed  to  be  caught  at  it.  Once,  I  remem- 
ber, in  house-cleaning  time,  while  she  was 
washing  the  kitchen-floor,  in  an  old  gown, 
with  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  no  stockings 
on  her  feet,  the  minister  called.  No  one 
heard  his  knock,  and  he  walked  through  the 
sitting-room,  into  the  kitchen,  w^here  Ann 
was  making  a  great  splashing  with  her  mop. 
When  she  caught  sight  of  that  solemn  man, 
she  screamed,  dropped  her  mop,  and  jumped 
through  an  open  ^window,  right  into  the 
rain-water  trough. 

But  Ann  was  the  pleasantest  sort  of  a 
housekeeper  while  her  mother  was  gone, 


72     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 


and  we  had  things  quite  to  our  liking.  I 
say  we,  for  I  was  visiting  Hattie  that  week. 
To  be  sure,  there  was  old  grandmother  Aus- 
tin, always  sitting  in  the  warmest  chimney- 
corner  ;  but  she  was  amiable,  and  so  deaf 
and  sleepy  that  she  did  not  interfere  with 
us  much. 

One  afternoon,  at  supper,  Ann  talked 
a  good  deal  with  Frank  and  Tom  about  two 
young  ladies  from  Albany,  Miss  Flagg,  and 
Miss  Dillingham,  who  were  visiting  some 
friends  in  the  village.  Ann  had  made  an 
early  call  on  them,  but  did  not  see  them, 
— they  were  not  at  home  ;  and  now  she  was 
fretting  because  the  call  had  not  been 
returned. 

After  supper,  I  noticed  Frank  and  Tom 
whispering  together,  and  presently  they 
said  they  were  going  to  our  house,  to  see 
my  brothers  for  a  little  while  ;  and,  putting 
on  their  caps,  they  went  off,  running  mer- 
rily down  the  road,  and  chasing  each  other 
with  snow-balls. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour,  a  sleigh  came 


THE  TWO  LADIES  FROM  THE  CITY.  73 

jingling  up  to  the  house  ;  two  ladies  got 
out,  came  to  the  door,  and  knocked,  rather 
loudly.  Mrs.  Austin's  only  hired  girl  was 
out  for  the  evening  ;  Hattie  and  I  were  too 
bashful  to  go  to  the  door  ;  so  Ann  was 
obliged  to  open  it  herself.  "  Is  Miss 
Antoinette  Austin  at  home  V  asked  one  of 
the  ladies,  in  a  little,  mincing  voice.  '^Tes, 
ma'am,''  answered  Ann.  ''Well,  then, 
my  good  girl,"  said  the  other  lady,  with  a 
toss  of  her  head,  ''  will  you  inform  her  that 
Miss  Flagg  and  Miss  Dillingham  have 
called?"  ''Why,  I  am  Miss  Antoinette 
Austin,  myself." 

"  0, 1  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Miss  Dil- 
lingham, while  she  and  her  friend  walked 
forward  and  took  the  chairs  which  Ann 
offered  them  ;  but  they  would  not  sit  very 
near  the  fire,  or  the  candle,  and  kept  their 
black  lace  veils  partly  over  their  faces. 

"Grandmother,"  said  Ann,  "these  are 
some  ladies  from  the  city, — Miss  Flagg 
and  Miss  DiUingham." 

"Who  ?"  said  the  poor,  deaf  old  lady; 


74     EECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

Miss  Ragg  and  Miss  Dinner-horn,  did  you 
say  ? 

''No,  grandmother,"  answered  Ann, 
speaking  loud  in  her  ear,  "  Miss  Flagg  and 
Miss  Dillingham ! 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  hear  ;  Miss  Lagg  and  Miss 
Dinghammer.'' 

The  ladies  laughed  outright  at  this,  and 
poor  Ann  grew  very  red  in  the  face.  But  she 
sat  down  and  began  conversing  with  her 
visiters,  about  Albany.  I  don't  suppose  that 
she  knew  it,  but  she  talked  very  affectedly, 
indeed,  in  a  little,  fine  voice,  nobody  ever 
heard  her  use  before.  She  spoke  of  the 
city  as  though  she  knew  all  about  it,  and 
once  in  a  while  she  brought  out  a  French 
word,  but  pronounced  it  so  queerly  that 
Miss  Flagg  made  her  repeat  it,  and,  even 
then,  did  n't  seem  to  understand  it.  Once 
she  asked,  ''Do  you  know  my  aunt,  Mrs. 
Mayor  Shelby  ? " 

"No,"  answered  Miss  Dillingham,  "  but 
I  know  Mrs.  Alderman  Shelton." 

Hattie  and  I  sat  on  a  settee,  near  the 


THE  TWO  LADIES  FROM  THE  CITY.  75 

fire,  watching  the  grand  visiters.  "An't 
it  funny/'  whispered  Hattie,  "  that  such 
little  voices  come  out  of  such  great 
mouths!" 

"  Yes/'  I  answered,  ''  and  haven't  they 
big  feet,  for  such  fine  ladies  ! " 

I  think  that  Miss  Flagg  heard  me,  for  she 
drew  her  feet  under  her  cloak.  Then  I 
noticed  that  both  her  cloak  and  bonnet  were 
like  those  my  eldest  sister  wore,  and  that 
Miss  Dillingham's  were  a  good  deal  like  my 
mother's.  I  felt  proud  to  know  that  my 
mother  and  sister  were  in  the  fashion. 

After  a  rather  short  call,  the  ladies  rose, 
made  each  a  great  courtesy,  and  took 
leave.  As  we  watched  them  from  the  win- 
dow, getting  into  the  sleigh,  I  thought  the 
boy  that  drove  looked  strangely  like  my 
brother  Will. 

In  about  half  an  hour,  the  boys  came 
home.  Hardly  were  they  in  the  house 
before  Ann  cried  out,  "  0,  you  don't 
know  what  you  have  missed  !  Miss  Flagg 
and  Miss  Dillingham  have  been  here,  and 


76     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

oh,  such  elegant,  genteel  young  ladies  as 
they  are  !  I  never  was  so  provoked  in  my 
life,  for  Susan  was  gone,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  be  waiter  myself ;  they  actually  took  me 
for  a  servant-girl.  But  you  should  ^lave 
seen  them  !  —  such  airs !  Just  proud  and 
haughty  enough,  I  think." 

"  Well,  I  say,"  spoke  up  old  Mrs.  Aus- 
tin, that  they  are  two  pert,  affected  hus- 
sies, with  no  manners  at  all." 

"  Why,  grandmother,"  said  Ann,  you 
have  always  lived  in  the  country,  and  don't 
exactly  know  what  is  genteel." 

I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Austin,  raising  her 
voice,  "  that  it 's  not  the  sign  of  a  lady  to 
grip  a  body's  hand  as  they  did  ;  and  no  real 
lady  or  gentleman  would  giggle  out  loud  at 
a  deaf  old  woman's  mistake." 

"  You  are  very  right,  grandmother,"  said 
Frank,  "  and  Tom  and  I  beg  pardon  for  our 
rudeness." 

What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Ann. 
Why,  Nanny,"  said  Frank,  mimicking 


THE  TWO  LADIES  FEOM  THE  CITY.  77 

her,  do  you  know  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Mayor 
Shelby?" 

You  good-for-nothing,  hateful  fellows  ! 
how  dare  you  play  off  such  a  trick  on  me  ? 
said  Ann,  laughing  and  crying  all  at  once, 
while  we  set  up  a  perfect  shout.  But  the 
boys  soon  soothed  her,  by  promising  not  to 
tell  her  father,  who  loved  dearly  to  tease 
her  about  any  such  foolish  little  thing.  I 
saw  how  it  was  :  the  boys  had  been  dressed 
at  our  house,  had  come  in  our  sleigh  to 
make  their  visit ;  and  I  was  not  sure  that 
my  mother  and  sister  were  in  the  fashion, 
after  all.  But  I  enjoyed  the  joke,  rather 
more  than  Ann,  I  think.  Yet  she  profited 
by  it,  certainly,  for  she  was  never  known 
to  talk  in  an  affected  or  boasting  way  again. 
The  real  ladies,  from  the  city,  came  to  see 
her,  a  day  or  two  after.  They  were  nice, 
quiet  girls,  with  frank,  easy  manners,  and 
liked  Ann  so  well,  on  acquaintance,  that  they 
persuaded  her  to  spend  some  time  with 
them  the  next  winter,  when  she  visited  her 
aunt,  in  Albany.    Then  she  saw  city-life 


78     EECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 


without  having  her  head  turned  by  its 
grandeur,  but  came  home  loving  the  coun- 
try,—  the  dear,  free,  fresh,  healthful  coun- 
try,— better  than  ever. 

The  spring  after  that  merry  Christmas- 
time, we  moved  from  our  old  home,  further 
west,  and  saw  no  more  and  heard  very  lit- 
tle of  the  Austins.  I  parted  from  Hattie 
with  great  sorrow.  We  solemnly  agreed  to 
love  each  other  dearly,  for  ever  and  ever  ; 
we  exchanged  locks  of  hair,  and  she  prom- 
ised to  take  care  of  the  cat  I  left  behind 
me. 

A  year  or  two  since,  I  received  a  call 
from  a  "  Dr.  Austin,"  whom  I  recognized, 
at  once,  as  my  old  friend  Frank.  I  was 
glad  to  see  that  he  was  as  healthy  and 
hearty,  as  fond  of  laughter  and  fan,  as  ever. 
He  brought  me  a  short  letter  from  his  sister 
Ann,  who  wrote  that  they  still  lived  in  the 
old  place  ;  that  her  mother  had  been  dead 
three  or  four  years,  and  that  Hattie  was 
married,  and  living  near  ;  that  was  all  the 
news  she  told  me.    "  Why,  Frank,"  I  said, 


THE  TWO  LADIES  FROM  THE  CITY.   -  79 

Ann  does  not  tell  me  the  name  of  Hattie's 
husband." 

"  Ah,  haven't  you  heard  V  he  replied, 
it 's  cousin  Tom  Shelby.  His  father 
couldn't  make  a  merchant,  a  lawyer,  a  min- 
ister, or  a  doctor,  out  of  him  ;  he  would  be 
nothing  but  a  farmer.  So  he  bought  old 
Johnson's  place,  married  our  Hat  tie,  and 
settled  down  to  farming,  as  happy  as  a 
king." 

0,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it !  "  I  said. 
"  But  how  is  this,  Frank !  I  see,  by  your  sis- 
ter's letter,  that  she  does  not  write  her 
name  Antoinette  any  more." 

"  "Why,  no,"  he  answered;  "  she  calls 
herself  'plain  Ann,'  now  ;  but  no  one  else 
calls  her  so,  for,  I  assure  you,  my  sister  is  a 
very  pretty  woman  ;  and  she  is  better  than 
pretty,  she  is  good  ;  you  know  she  always 
was,  —  but  now  more  than  ever,  for,  since 
mother  died,  she  has  been  like  a  mother  to 
us  all." 

8 


PAET  SECOND. 


THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST. 

In  the  eastern  part  of  the  State  of  New 
York,  there  once  lived  two  sisters,  Sarah 
and  Jenny  Starr.  They  were  left  orphans 
when  very  young,  and  had  been  adopted  by 
some  kind  relations  ;  but  Sarah,  who  was 
four  or  five  years  the  oldest,  took  almost  all 
the  care  of  Jenny.  Sarah  was  a  good, 
motherly  girl,  very  prndent  and  serious  ; 
she  was  plain  in  all  but  a  pair  of  large, 
dark  brown  eyes,  and  a  great  mass  of  curly 
black  hair.  But  she  thought  nothing  of 
herself,  so  dearly  did  she  love  her  little 
sister.  And  Jenny  was,  indeed,  a  darling 
child,  with  a  far  prettier  face  than  Sarah's, 
and  the  gladdest  heart  in  the  world.  She 
would  play,  and  laugh,  and  sing,  all  the  day 


THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST.  81 

long.  No  one  ever  saw  Jenny  sad,  or  out 
of  humor  ;  but,  perhaps,  this  was  partly 
because,  being  so  beautiful  and  so  prettily 
dressed  always,  everybody  was  kind  to  her, 
and  indulged  her.  It  is  easy  for  such  pet- 
ted children  to  be  happy  and  good-natured. 
But,  any  way,  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
her  dancing  about  here  and  there,  chasing 
butterflies,  hunting  flowers,  frolicking  with 
her  pretty  spaniel  Fido,  laughing  like  a 
little  silver  brook,  and  singing  like  some 
merry  mocking-bird  ;  most  often  with  her 
gypsy  hat  fallen  back  from  her  head,  and 
her  long  bright  curls  floating  in  the  wind. 

"When  Jenny  was  only  sixteen,  she  was 
married  to  a  Mr.  'Silsbee,  a  very  wealthy 
gentleman,  and  went  to  live  in  a  beautiful 
place,  near  the  town  where  she  was  born. 
She  had  an  elegant  house,  surrounded  with 
trees  and  flowers,  and  everything  delightful 
about  her. 

Soon  after  this,  Sarah  was  also  married 
to  a  young  man  who  had  loved  her  a  num- 
ber of  years,  but  whom  she  had  not  been 


82  THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST. 

willing  to  marry  until  she  could  see  her  sis- 
ter Jenny  living  in  a  home  of  her  own. 
Henry  Williams  was  not  rich,  but  he  was  a 
good,  amiable  person.  Sarah  loved  him, 
and  was  very  happy  to  be  his  wife.  He 
w^as  a  physician,  and  soon  took  her  with 
him  to  the  far  west,  thinking  that  he  might 
do  better  there  than  in  the  east. 

The  sisters  grieved  much  at  parting. 
Both  wept  a  great  deal,  —  Jenny  the  most 
violently,  and  Sarah  the  longest.  But  they 
hoped  to  see  each  other  before  a  very  long 
time. 

In  about  two  months,  Jenny  had  a  long 
letter  from  her  sister.  Dr.  Williams  had 
bought  some  land,  and  built  a  little  frame- 
house,  in  a  beautiful  oak-grove,  on  one  of 
the  great  western  prairies.  Sarah  wrote 
very  cheerfully,  and  begged  her  sister  to 
come  out  and  make  her  a  visit,  in  a  year  or 
two.  But  Jenny  was  indolent,  and  dreaded 
the  trouble  of  journeying,  which  was  much 
greater  at  that  time  than  it  is  now.  So 
she  was  always  promising,  but  never  went 


THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST.  83 

to  see  her  sister  ;  neither  did  she  write  to 
her  regularly.  Sarah  grew  tired  of  writing 
long  letters,  which  received  short  answers, 
or  none  at  all,  and  wrote  herself  less  often  ; 
and,  at  last,  the  sisters,  who,  in  childhood, 
had  been  such  close  and  loving  companions, 
scarcely  heard  from  one  another  once  a 
year.  Yet  they  loved  each  other  still, 
though  the  thoughtful  Sarah  remembered 
the  dear  old  times  oftener  than  the  light- 
hearted  Jenny. 

And  so  eight  long  years  went  by.  Jenny 
was  yet  as  happy  as  ever.  Her  husband 
was  very  fond  of  her,  and  she  still  had  all 
around  her  that  her  heart  could  desire. 
First,  among  the  good  things  that  God  had 
given  her,  were  three  lovely  children, — 
two  boys,  Georgie  and  Willie,  and  one 
daughter,  "  little  Kate." 

Jenny  made  a  funny  sort  of  a  mother. 
She  was  just  like  a  child  with  her  children  ; 
would  romp  and  laugh  with  them,  run 
races,  and  play  with  balls,  kites,  kittens  and 
doll-babies.    And  Jenny  looked  hke  a  child 


84  THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST. 

herself.  She  was  short  and  plump,  with 
dimpled  cheeks,  rosy  lips,  bright  curls,  and 
twinkling  blue  eyes.  Any  little  boy  or  girl 
would  be  very  unreasonable  to  ask  a  merrier 
playmate  than  Jenny  Silsbee. 

To  Sarah  had  been  given  two  daughters, 
whom  she  had  named  for  her  mother  and 
sister,  Alice  and  Jenny.  They  were  not  so 
pretty  as  the  children  of  Mrs.  Silsbee,  for 
the  climate  of  the  new  country  proved 
unhealthy,  and  they  were  always  pale  and 
sickly.  But  their  father  and  mother  loved 
them  all  the  more  dearly  and  cared  for 
them  the  more  tenderly  for  that.  Mrs. 
Williams  was  also  often  sick,  and  her  hus- 
band did  not  have  much  practice  ;  so  they 
were  quite  poor.  But  the  doctor  was  a 
proud  man,  and  did  not  ask  his  friends  in  the 
east  for  assistance  ;  and  Sarah  was  also  too 
independent  in  her  feelings  to  write  to  her 
wealthy  sister  for  help.  She  did  not  doubt 
but  that  Jenny  would  be  glad  to  give  it ; 
but  she  knew  it  must  come  from  Mr. 
Silsbee,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  have  the 


THE  AUNT  FEOM  THE  WEST.  85 


doctor  indebted  to  him,  for  Sarah  was  only- 
proud  for  her  husband. 

One  chilly  autumn  day,  about  sunset, 
Mrs.  Silsbee  was  sitting  in  a  comfortable 
arm-chair,  before  a  bright  fire,  in  her  hand- 
some parlor,  stitching  away  at  some  worsted- 
work.  After  quite  tiring  herself  out  frol- 
icking with  her  children,  she  had  turned 
them  into  the  hall  to  finish  their  play  by 
themselves.  Suddenly,  she  heard  the  dog 
barking  furiously  in  the  yard;  and,  soon 
A  after,  Georgie  and  Willie  burst  into  the 
parlor,  crying,  '^0,  mamma!  come' into 
the  hall !  there  is  such  a  queer-looking 
old  woman  there,  with  such  a  funny  plaid 
cloak,  and  such  an  old  old-fashioned  bon- 
net on ! " 

Half  dragged  by  her  merry  boys,  Mrs. 
Silsbee  went  into  the  hall.  At  her  first 
look  on  the  stranger's  old-fashioned  dress, 
Jenny  laughed  with  the  children,  she  was 
so  childish.  But,  in  a  moment,  she  saw 
that  the  woman  was  poor,  for  her  clothes 
were  much  worn ;  that  she  had  been  sick. 


86  THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST. 

for  her  face  was  thin  and  pale  ;  and  that 
she  was  probably  tiredj  for  she  carried  a 
heavy  carpet-bag  on  her  arm. 

So  Jenny  said,  kindly,  Will  you  not  be 
seated  ?  And  pray  tell  me  what  I  can  do 
for  you,  my  good  woman." 

Don't  you  know  me?"  replied  the 
stranger,  sadly.    J enny  shook  her  head. 

The  woman  took  off  her  bonnet,  and,  as 
she  did  so,  her  hair  fell  on  her  shoulders, — 
Sarah's  own  curly  black  hair.  '^Now, 
don't  you  know  me,  Jenny  ? "  she  cried,  her 
great  brown  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Jenny 
sprang  toward  her,  caught  her  in  her  arms, 
and  then  the  sisters  kissed  one  another, 
and  wept  together.  The  children  were 
sadly  puzzled  to  know  what  all  this  meant ; 
but  they  cried  too,  clinging  to  their  mother. 
At  last,  Mrs.  Silsbee  said  to  them,  '^This, 
children,  is  your  aunt  Sarah,  from  the  west, 
whom  I  have  told  you  so  much  about. 
Come,  and  kiss  her."  And  they  kissed  her 
very  affectionately. 


THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST.  87 


When  they  were  all  seated  around  the 
fire,  in  the  parlor,  Jenny  said. 

Now,  dear  sister,  do  tell  me  what  this 
means !  Why  do  you  come  to  us  alone, 
and  in  this  condition  ? 

Sarah  replied  calmly,  It  means,  Jenny, 
that  my  husband  is  dead.  He  was  ill  a 
long  time  with  the  fever,  and  the  expenses 
of  his  sickness  made  us  very  poor.  I  was 
obliged  to  sell  everything,  to  get  money 
enough  to  bring  me  to  you." 

^'  But  your  children, — where  are  they  1 " 
Jenny  asked. 

They  died  before  their  father.'' 

"  What,  both  ?  '' 

''Yes,  both,"  answered  Sarah, —  ''my 
two  dear  little  girls.  So,  Jenny,  I  would 
have  no  children  to  make  sport  of  you, 
should  you  come,  poor  and  alone,  to  see 
me." 

"  0,  sister,  sister,  don't  say  anything 
about  that  again,  but  forgive  me  and  the 
children!  "  said  Jenny,  weeping;  and  lifting 
Sarah's  dry,  bony  hand,  she  kissed  it  in  a 
9 


88  THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST. 

humble,  loving  way.  But  Willie  looked  up 
in  her  face,  and  said,  stoutly,  though  his 
lip  quivered  all  the  while, 

''Why,  Aunt  Sarah,  we  didn't  know  it 
was  you^  or  we  wouldn't  have  laughed  at 
your  queer  old  bonnet.  Now,  you  may 
wear  two  or  three  such  bonnets,  one  on 
top  of  the  other,  and  we  won't  make  fun 
of  you." 

Even  the  sad  aunt  laughed  at  this  funny 
speech.  Jenny  and  the  other  children 
joined  in,  and  they  all  made  friends. 

Mr.  Silsbee  soon  came  in  to  tea.  He 
seemed  very  glad  to  see  his  sister-in-law, 
and  welcomed  her  to  his  home. 

Afterwards,  he  and  his  wife  did  all  they 
could  to  make  Sarah  comfortable  and  happy; 
the  children  gre^^r  very  fond  of  their  gentle 
aunt,  who  seemed  to  love  them  almost  as 
well  as  though  they  were  her  own.  One 
jesson  she  taught  them  by  her  coming  :  never 
to  be  rude  to  strangers,  or  to  laugh  at  any 
person  for  wearing  a  poor  or  old-fashioned 
dress. 


THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST.  89 


Sarah  grew  better  in  health,  and  became 
quite  cheerful ;  yet  often,  at  sunset,  she 
would  sit  by  the  windows,  looking  out 
toward  the  west.  At  such  times,  Jenny 
would  cease  laughing  and  chatting,  and  the 
children  would  gather  about  their  aunt,  very 
still  and  sorrowful,  for  they  knew  she  was 
thinking  of  their  uncle  Henry,  and  the 
"  two  dear  little  girls,"  Alice  and  Jenny, 
all  lying  in  their  lonely  graves,  in  the  dis- 
tant prairie  land. 

She  lias  left  her  husband  sleeping, 

With  a  child  on  either  side ;  — 
Did  he  hope  so  soon  to  meet  them, 

That  he  wept  not  when  they  died  ? 

Brightly  on  the  mound  above  him. 

And  above  each  little  grave, 
Soon  all  golden,  blue  and  crimson, 

Shall  the  western  wild-flowers  wave. 

Though  thou  'rt  far,  sad  wife  and  mother, 

From  the  home  so  dear  to  thee, 
Where  the  long  grass  of  the  prairies  ^ 

Rolls  in  billows  like  the  sea. 

Grieve  not  for  thy  babes,  for  sickness 
Pains  no  more  their  tender  breasts, 

And  their  father,  worn  and  weary. 
Close  beside  them  sweetly  rests. 


THE  AUNT  FROM  THE  WEST. 


Though  upon  their  graves  thy  tear-drops 

Fall  no  longer  with  the  dew, 
5111  the  stars  come  out  in  heaven, 

And  the  moon  rolls  up  the  blue, 

God's  good  angels  guard  their  grave-rest. 

In  the  distant  prairie  land  ; 
God  shall  bring  you  all  together. 

In  a  heavenly  household  band. 


LITTLE  Charlie's  will.  93 


dom  too  ill  to  be  talkative  and  cheerful ;  so 
it  was  very  natural  for  visiters  to  notice 
Charlie  the  most,  and,  as  they  supposed  he 
needed  amusing,  to  send  him  books  and  to 
make  him  presents  most  frequently.  All 
this  partiality"  was  shown  to  him,  Walter 
said,  because  he  happened  to  have  a  plain 
face,  and  did  n't  know  how  to  put  himself 
forward.  Charlie  was  grieved  at  this,  and 
always  wished  to  share  his  gifts  with  his 
brother ;  but  Walter  could  never  be  per- 
suaded to  accept  anything. 

One  time,  when  Charlie  was  about  ten 
years  old,  his  mother  had  a  visit  from  a 
pious  maiden  aunt,  who  spent  some  weeks 
in  the  family.  During  Miss  Hannah  Per- 
kins' stay,  she  became  much  attached  to 
quiet  little  Charlie ;  but  as  Walter  gave  way 
to  his  temper,  two  or  three  times,  before 
her,  and  made  sport  of  some  of  her  queer 
ways,  she  did  not  like  him  over-much, 
though  she  thought  he  might  be  made  a 
good  boy  of,  with  proper  management.  She 
wondered  how  his  mother  could  let  such  fits 


94  LITTLE  Charlie's  will, 

of  passion  and  such  naughty  tricks  pass 
without  severe  punishment.  If  he  were  her 
child,  she  said,  she  would  soon  whip  that 
bad  temper  out  of  him.  But  Mrs.  Harrison 
believed  that  one  blow  would  put  more  evil 
passion  into  the  heart  of  such  a  proud  boy 
as  Walter  than  she  could  ever  get  out. 

She  never  failed  seriously  to  reprove  his 
faults  and  wrong  actions  ;  and  she  knew — 
what  she  told  no  one  —  that  Walter  would 
always  come  to  her,  after  an  outburst  of 
impatience  or  bad  feeling,  and  ask  her  for- 
giveness. She  knew  that  he  loved  her,  his 
father,  brother  and  little  sister,  intensely: 
so  she  was  patient,  and  prayed  God  to  soften 
the  heart  and  subdue  the  temper  of  her 
unhappy  child. 

A  short  time  after  Aunt  Hannah  returned 
home,  !=^he  sent  the  boys  each  a  book. 
Charlie's  happened  to  be  opened  first.  It  was 
a  handsome  illustrated  copy  of  "  Eobinson 
Crusoe."  Walter  then  eagerly  opened  his 
own,  which  was  rather  gayly  bound.    It  was 

The  Memoirs  of  a  Sunday-school  Scholar.'' 


LITTLE  Charlie's  will.  95 

Walter  flung  it  down,  saying,  angrily, 
''What  did  the  old  maid  send  me  this  for, 
I  wonder?  I  have  had  enough  of  such 
things  out  of  the  Sunday-school  Library. 
She  did  not  send  you  such  a  humdrum  sort 
of  a  book,  Charlie.  I  suppose  she  thought 
you  were  pious  enough,  without.'' 

''0  brother,"  said  Charlie,  ''don't  talk 
so  hard.  I  am  sure  Aunt  Hannah  meant 
very  kindly  by  us  both." 

Walter  took  up  his  book,  and  began  look- 
ing through  it ;  but  he  soon  broke  out  again, 
—  "  Pshaw !  just  as  I  thought ;  nothing  but 
'  early  piety,'  '  early  piety.'  Why  could  n't 
she  have  sent  me  some  story  about  wars,  or 
pirates,  or  even  Indians  ?  I  am  tired  to 
death  of  '  early  piety  ! '  " 

"  You  will  never  trouble  your  friends  with 
it,  my  son,"  said  Mrs.  Harrison,  who  had 
just  entered  the  room.  Walter  started  and 
blushed ;  he  did  not  know  that  his  mother 
was  so  near.  But  he  replied,  sullenly,  "  I 
wish  I  might  not  trouble  them  in  any  way, 
any  longer.    It  would  be  better  for  all  if  I 


96  LITTLE  Charlie's  will. 

were  dead  and  buried ;  for  I 'm  of  no  use 
in  the  world,  and  nobody  loves  me." 

After  having  said  these  unkind  words, 
Walter  took  his  ball-club,  and  went  out  onto 
the  village-green,  where  the  boys  were  al- 
ready at  play.  Charlie  soon  followed  ;  not 
to  mingle  in  the  sport,  for  he  was  not  strong 
enough  for  that,  —  but  he  loved  always  to 
watch  his  brother,  and  felt  proud  of  his 
skill  and  strength. 

After  about  a  half-hour's  play,  many  of 
the  boys  set  out  for  home,  as  a  hard  storm 
seemed  coming  on.  The  clouds  were  rolling 
up  thick  and  black,  the  lightnings  flashed, 
and  the  thunder  broke  overhead.  Walter 
Harrison,  who  had  appeared  half  angry  in 
all  his  play,  was  now  leaning  against  the 
side  of  the  church,  within  a  yard  or  two  of 
the  lightning-rod.  The  boys  called  to  him 
to  come  away,  as  he  was  in  a  dangerous 
place  ;  but  Walter  would  not  stir.  Charlie 
ran  up  to  him,  and  begged  him  to  go  home  ; 
but  he  only  said,  ''I  don't  care  if  the 
lightning  does  strike  me.    I  tell  you  again, 


LITTLE  Charlie's  will. 


97 


I 'm  of  no  use  in  the  world  —  nobody  loves 
me.   You  may  run  home,  if  you  are  afraid." 

'^I  am  not  afraid  for  myself,  brother/' 
said  Charlie,  his  lip  quivering  ;  "  but  I  will 
go  home  and  beg  mamma  to  come  for  you." 

Charlie  had  not  run  half  across  the  green, 
when  there  came  a  great  blaze  of  lightning, 
and  a  heavy  crash  of  thunder,  which  seemed 
to  shake  the  very  ground.  The  boys  who 
were  looking  toward  the  church  said  that 
they  saw  the  lightning  roll  down  the  rod 
like  a  ball  of  fire,  and  disappear  in  the 
earth ;  and  that,  at  the  same  instant,  Wal- 
ter fell  to  the  ground.  They  ran  to  him  at 
once,  raised  him  up,  and  carried  him  home. 
The  poor  boy's  eyes  and  mouth  were  open, 
but  he  seemed  quite  dead.  The  doctor  was 
sent  for, —  came  immediately,  took  "Walter 
from  the  bed,  laid  him  on  the  floor,  and  began 
pouring  cold  water  upon  him  by  the  bucket- 
ful. Mrs.  Harrison  had  been  strangely 
calm,  at  first;  but  when  Walter  began  to 
show  some  little  signs  of  life,  the  joy  was 
more  than  she  could  bear,  and  she  fainted 


98  LITTLE  Charlie's  will. 

away.  She  went  from  one  fainting  fit  into 
another ;  and  when  Walter  was  at  last  so 
much  restored  as  to  ask  for  her,  she  was 
lying  quite  insensible.  Then  first  he  knew 
how  deeply  and  dearly  his  mother  loved  him. 
Little  Charlie  threw  himself  down  by  Wal- 
ter, in  the  water,  which  was  flooding  the 
room,  and  the  brothers  kissed  one  another, 
and  cried  for  joy.  It  was  many  days  before 
Walter  was  entirely  well ;  but,  when  he  did 
get  about,  jeverybody  noticed  a  great  change 
in  him.  He  was  more  kind  and  pleasant ; 
far  less  jealous  and  passionate ;  he  was 
happier,  and  made  others  happier,  than  ever 
before.  He  was  so  sure  now  that  his  mother 
truly  loved  him  ;  and  he  knew,  he  said,  that 
he  could  never  again  be  jealous  of  his  little 
brother.  But,  alas !  Walter  did  not  know 
himself.  When  he  was  fourteen,  and  his 
brother  — still  called  little  Charlie"  — 
about  twelve,  a  wealthy  uncle  came  from 
Boston  for  a  brief  visit.  As  this  gentleman 
had  no  family,  it  was  thought  that  Walter, 
who  had  been  named  for  him,  would  be  the 


LITTLE  Charlie's  will.  99 


heir  to  his  fortune.  For  this  very  reason, 
Walter  was  too  proud  to  pay  him  any  court ; 
indeed,  he  hardly  paid  him  proper  respect 
and  attention,  and  was  generally  silent  and 
reserved  in  his  presence.  Mr.  Rogers  did 
not  understand  this  manner ;  he  thought 
Walter  sullen  and  cold,  and,  though  he 
could  but  see  that  he  was  an  honest,  intel- 
ligent boy,  he  w^as  not,  on  the  whole,  pleased 
with  him.  But,  like  all  other  visiters,  he 
was  quite  charmed  with  little  Charlie  ;  and 
he  had  not  been  long  gone  from  the  village, 
before  there  arrived  from  Boston  a  beautiful 
white  pony,  handsomely  saddled  and  bri- 
dled, ''For  Master  Charles  Harrison.'' 
In  a  letter  to  his  sister,  Mr.  Eogers  said. 

Thinking  that  a  daily  ride  may  benefit  my 
little  invalid  nephew,  I  send  a  pony,  which 
is  both  spirited  and  docile.  I  hope  that 
Charlie  will  accept  it,  with  the  kind  wishes 
of  'Uncle  Walter."' 

Both  Mrs.  Harrison  and  Charlie  were 
pained  that  no  present  came  for  Walter,  and 
that  he  was  scarcely  mentioned  in  the  let- 


100        LITTLE  Charlie's  will. 

ter ;  Avhile,  as  for  Walter,  he  felt  the  old 
jealous  feeling  boiling  up  from  his  heart, 
hotter  than  ever,  and  said  some  hard  things, 
which  he  had  better  have  left  unsaid. 

"  Why,  brother,"  said  Charlie,  ''the pony 
shall  be  as  much  yours  as  mine  ;  you  may 
ride  it  every  day." 

No,  I  Vv^on't !  "  answered  Walter,  an- 
grily;  "  I  never  will  mount  it,  as  long  as  I 
live.    I  would  n't  be  so  mean." 

But  Walter  had  little  call  to  be  envious 
of  his  brother,  who  was  quite  too  weak  to 
ride  his  pretty  pony.  A  few  rods  only, 
gave  him  a  severe  pain  in  the  side,  —  so 
very  delicate  was  poor  Charlie. 

This  spring  he  seemed  far  worse  than 
usual :  he  did  not  complain,  but  he  daily 
grew  weak  and  languid,  till  finally  he  could 
no  longer  be  about  the  house. 

One  afternoon,  when  he  came  from  school, 
Walter  found  Charlie  sitting  up  in  his  bed, 
writing  ;  but  he  hid  his  paper  and  pencil 
under  the  pillow,  when  he  saw  his  brother, 
and  hastily  wiped  away  some  tears  which 


LITTLE  Charlie's  will.  101 

were  on  his  cheek.  That  very  night  he 
grew  much  worse  ;  a  fever  came  on,  and  he 
was  quite  dehrious.  All  night  long  they 
watched  over  him,  with  great  anxiety ;  and 
during  the  next  day,  though  he  was  more 
quiet,  and  slept  most  of  the  time.  When 
awake,  he  did  not  speak  much,  or  seem  to 
recognize  any  one. 

Just  at  sunset,  Walter  was  sitting  in  his 
own  chamber  by  the  window,  with  his  face 
hid  in  the  curtains,  —  for  he  was  grieving  for 
his  gentle  brother,  who  was  like  to  die, — 
when  his  mother  entered,  holding  a  paper  in 
her  hand.  Walter  saw  that  she  had  been 
weeping,  as  she  said,  "1  found  this  paper 
under  little  Charlie's  pillow;  you  may  read 
it,  if  you  will." 

Walter  opened  it,  saw  that  it  was  in 
Charlie's  handwriting,  and  read, 

''my  last  will  and  testament. 
''I  leave  to  my  dear  mamma  my  gold- 
clasped  Bible,  my  trunk,  and  all  my  clothes, 
except  my  new  green  cloth  roundabout, 


102 


LITTLE  Charlie's  will. 


which  I  leave  to  Cousin  John,  because  he 
likes  it,  and  it  just  fits  him.  To  my  papa 
I  leave  my  pictures  of  Jesus  Christ  stilling 
the  Tempest,  and  the  fight  between  the 
'  Constitution '  and  '  Guerriere,'  my  seal 
of  Hope  and  the  anchor,  and  the  '  Voyages 
of  Captain  Cook/  To  my  sister  Clara  I 
leave  my  canaries,  my  pet  squirrel,  •  my 
flowers,  and  all  my  fairy  story-books.  To 
my  brother  Walter  I  give  the  rest  of  my 
library,  my  chessboard  and  men,  my  battle- 
dores and  shuttle-cock,  my  rabbits,  my  dog, 
and  my  white  pony  :  and  when  I  am  dead, 
I  hope  he  will  believe  I  have  loved  him 
dearly.  Charles  Harrison." 

Walter  wept  bitterly  over  this  will ;  but 
when  he  had  grown  calm,  he  said,  "  May  I 
go  to  him,  mother  V  "If  you  will  promise 
not  to  disturb  him,''  she  answered.  Walter 
promised,  and  stole  softly  into  the  dim 
chamber  where  Charlie  was  now  alone, 
sleeping  quietly.  He  knelt  down  by  the 
bedside,  hid  his  face  in  the  counterpane, 


LITTLE  Charlie's  will.  103 


and  silently  prayed  God  to  forgive  all  his 
sins,  to  give  him  a  better  heart,  and  to  make 
his  brother  well  again.  Suddenly  he  felt  a 
soft  hand  laid  on  his  head.  He  looked  up, 
and  Charlie's  mild  blue  eyes  were  smiling 
on  him.  ^'  Come  and  lie  by  my  side,"  he 
said  ;  and  Walter  laid  himself  down  there, 
and  the  brothers  again  embraced,  and  kissed 
each  other. 

As  thus  they  lay,  talking  softly  and 
sweetly  together,  they  heard  some  unusual 
noise  below,  and  then  their  mother  coming 
up  stairs  with  some  one  who  stepped  a  little 
heavier.  It  was  their  father,  returned  from 
his  longest  and  last  sea  voyage  !  Now  he 
promised  to  stay  at  home  Avith  them  always. 

The  return  of  Captain  Harrison  did  more 
than  medicine  to  cure  his  little  son,  who 
soon  became  stronger  than  he  had  ever  been 
before. 

One  afternoon,  when  Charlie  had  been  a 
fortnight  about  the  house,  it  was  arranged 
that  he  should  take  a  short  ride  on  his  white 
pony,  soon  after  breakfast,  the  next  day. 
10 


104        LITTLE  Charlie's  will. 


When  Walter  came  down  in  the  morning, 
his  mother  kissed  him  more  tenderly  than 
usual,  and  his  father,  shaking  hands  with 
him  heartily,  wished  him  many  happy  re- 
turns of  the  day.  Walter  looked  as  though 
he  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  this,  and 
his  mother  said,  Why,  my  son,  is  it  pos- 
sible you  have  forgotten  this  is  your  birth- 
day ?  " 

''Ah,  yes,  mamma,"  he  answered;  ''I 
only  remembered  that  it  was  Charlie's  first 
day  out." 

''And  so,"  said  his  father,  "you  are  to 
give  him  a  ride  ;  pray,  what  are  you  to 
do?" 

"0,  I  '11  trot  along  by  his  side,  on  foot. 
I  believe  I  can  outrun  that  pony,  now." 

When  breakfast  was  over,  Walter  helped 
his  brother  into  the  saddle,  and  was  arrang- 
ing the  bridle,  when  Charlie  called  out,  joy- 
fully, "Look  there,  brother! "  pointing  with 
his  riding-whip  to  another  white  pony, 
somewhat  larger  than  his  own,  standing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  yard.    Walter  ran  to 


LITTLE  Charlie's  will.  105 

it,  took  off  a  slip  of  paper  which  was  pinned 
to  the  rein,  and  read :  Will  Walter,  our 
first-born  and  beloved  son,  accept  this  birth- 
day gift  from  his  parents  ? 

Walter  laid  his  face  against  the  slender, 
arching  neck  of  his  beautiful  horse,  and 
burst  into  tears.  But  he  was  too  happy  to 
weep  long ;  he  soon  ran  into  the  house, 
thanked  and  kissed  his  father  and  mother, 
ran  out  again,  mounted,  and  rode  off  with 
his  brother. 

They  had  a  fine  ride.  They  had  many 
fine  rides  together  in  the  years  that  fol- 
lowed ;  for  Charlie  continued  to  improve, 
till  he  became  quite  strong  and  vigorous. 
As  for  Walter,  he  always  kept  his  robust 
health ;  he  did  not  grow  to  be  handsome, 
but  he  became  what  is  far  better,  truly 
amiable  and  agreeable.  Even  Aunt  Hannah 
Perkins  grew  to  liking  him,  at  last ;  and 
Uncle  Walter  Rogers,  who  sent  him  to  col- 
lege, has  been  heard  to  declare  that  he 
shall  leave  him  all  his  fortune,  —  knowing 
that  he  will  not  hoard  it  like  a  miser,  or 


106        LITTLE  Charlie's  will. 

waste  it  like  a  spendtlirift,  but  so  use  it  as 
to  do  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  make  a 
great  many  people  happy.  But  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  writing  that  gives  to  Walter 
Harrison  a  large  sum  of  money,  land,  and 
houses,  will  ever  be  so  dear  to  him  as  a 
little  scrap  of  paper,  which  he  keeps  among 
his  most  valuable  anti  >  icred  things  in  his 
private  desk,  and  on  which  he  has  written, 
''Little  Charlie's  Will.'' 


THE  HEUMIT. 


I  KNOW  an  old  man,  with  snowy  white  hair, 

And  figure  all  bony,  and  swarthy,  and  spare ; 

With  a  long  Roman  nose,  like  a  parrot's  hooked  beak, 

And  little  cross  eyes,  all  rheumy  and  weak ; 

Like  an  odd  piece  of  crockery  laid  on  the  shelf. 

This  funny  old  man  lives  away  by  himself ;  — 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
In  a  mouldering  mill,  with  moss  o'ergrown ; 
Too  lonesome  for  dogs  and  for  sociable  cats, 
And  only  not  too  much  battered  for  bats ;  — 
Down  in  a  hollow,  dark,  swampy,  and  damp. 
Where  frogs  might  have  agues,  and  die  of  the  cramp, 

And  feathery  owls  be  a-cold,  — 
There  he  grindeth  his  corn,  and  maketh  his  bread, 
And  stirreth  the  straw  that  formeth  his  bed ; 
There  taketh  he  patches,  and  needle  and  thread, 

And  mendeth  his  garments  old. 

Sometimes  he  sings  a  dismal  old  tune. 
In  a  small,  cracked  voice ;  sometimes,  at  noon. 
When  the  sun  is  warm,  and  the  wind  from  the  south, 
He  falls  fast  asleep,  —  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth. 


108 


THE  HERMIT. 


This  old,  old  man  was  once  a  child,  — 

How  strange  it  seems  !  —  was  once  a  child  ; 

Over  his  cradle  a  father  smiled, 

And  a  mother,  on  her  gentle  breast, 

Sung  and  hushed  him  into  rest, 

Smoothed  from  his  forehead  the  silky  soft  hair. 

And  kissed  the  cheek  of  her  baby  fair. 

Perhaps,  as  on  her  lap  he  lay. 

He  saw  proud  brothers  round  him  play, 

Who  brought  him  toys  to  check  his  cries, 

And  sisters  laughed  at  his  cunning  cross-eyes. 

Where  are  they  now  ?    All  gone  —  all  gone 
Dead  and  buried  these  many  years ; 
And  now,  alack !  he  never  hears, 

Bay  or  night,  one  kindred  tone  ! 
He  never  looks  on  a  loving  face, — 
The  last  of  all  his  humble  race, 

The  poor  old  fellow  must  die  alone ! 

But  little  cares  he.    For  the  Lord  of  all, 
Who  heeds  the  sparrows  when  they  fall. 
He  trusts  to  forgive  his  errors  past, 
And  see  him  safe  in  heaven  at  last. 


EFFIE  GREY'S  SLEEP-WALKINa. 


Effie  Grey,  though,  one  of  the  sweetest, 
was  one  of  the  most  singular  girls  in  the 
world.  She  seemed  to  have  two  distinct 
lives.  Almost  every  bright  moonshiny 
night,  she  was  up,  softly  walking  about  the 
house,  and  sometimes  in  the  garden  and 
yard,  all  in  her  sleep.  Sometimes  she  dimly 
remembered  these  rambles,  as  though  she 
had  dreamed  of  them,  but  oftenest  she  had 
not  the  least  recollection  of  them.  In  dark 
or  unpleasant  nights,  she  seldom  was  known 
to  go  abroad  ;  but  when  disposed  to  take  a 
stroll  by  moonlight,  nothing  could  prevent 
her ;  for  she  moved  so  quietly  and  softly, 
that  she  awoke  no  one ;  and  if  she  found  the 
doors  locked  and  the  keys  taken  away,  she 
would  escape  by  the  windows. 

When  Effie  was  fifteen  or  sixteen  years 
old,  she  outgrew  this  strange  habit,  and 


110       EFFIE  grey's  sleep-walking. 

learned  to  sleep  quietly  in  her  bed,  like 
other  people.  Some  two  years  before,  how- 
ever, an  odd  adventure  happened  to  her. 
It  was  this : 

On  a  pleasant  Saturday  afternoon,  early 
iatlie  autumn,  Effie,  with  her  two  brothers, 
Jamie  and  Archie,  and  three  or  four  of  her 
schoolmates,  went  into  the  woods  to  gather 
wild  grapes.  Thd*  boys  would  climb  the 
trees,  break  off  the  ripe  clusters,  and  drop 
them  into  the  spread  aprons  of  the  girls ; 
sometimes  they  would  tear  away  whole 
vines,  and  fling  them  to  the  ground. 

Altogether,  they  had  a  right  merry  time, 
though  they  were  somewhat  disappointed  in 
not  getting  quite  so  many  nice  grapes  as 
they  expected  to  find.  Many  of  the  vines 
grew  so  much  in  the  shade,  that  the  fruit 
was  stunted  and  sour. 

On  their  w^ay  home,  they  perceived  across 
a  dark  stream  a  large  vine,  wliich,  growing 
from  between  two  rocky  ledges,  clambered 
up  the  almost  perpendicular  bank,  and  hung 
its  rich  clusters  of  purple  fruit  over  the 


EFFIE  grey's  sleep- WALKINa.  Ill 

water.  These  were  by  far  the  largest  and 
ripest  grapes  the  children  had  seen,  and 
they  stood  for  some  moments  looking  at 
them  with  longing  eyes.  But  they  could 
only  be  gathered  by  climbing  the  bank  from 
the  water,  and  not  even  the  boys  were 
brave  enough  for  such  an  exploit ;  for, 
though  the  stream  was  not  deep,  it  was 
very  black  and  miry.  So  they  all  went  on 
their  way,  leaving  the  grapes  for  the  wild 
birds  to  feast  upon,  at  their  leisure. 

That  night,  Effie  was  for  a  long  time  too 
tired  to  sleep.  She  tossed  and  turned  on 
her  soft  bed^  as  though  it  had  been  stuffed 
with  corn-stalks,  or  even  chestnut-burs. 
She  lived  over  the  toilsome  sport  of  the 
afternoon :  now  scrambling  after  grapes ; 
now  tumbling  over  logs,  and  breaking  her 
way  through  bushes  ;  and,  last  before  she 
went  to  sleep,  she  thought  longingly  on 
those  nice,  ripe,  un-get-atable  grapes,  hang- 
ing over  the  creek. 

When  Effie  awoke  in  the  morning,  she 
felt  strangely  lame  and  stiff;  and  when  she 
11 


112       EFFIE  grey's  sleep-walking. 

thrust  her  feet  out  of  bed,  what  was  her 
astonishment  to  find  them  all  covered  with 
thick  black  mud  !  The  linen  sheets  of  her 
bed,  so  snowy  clean  the  night  before,  were 
now  in  a  shocking  condition ;  and,  from  a 
window  opening  on  to  a  piazza,  led  miry 
foot-prints  across  the  nice  rush  matting. 
But,  strangest  of  all,  on  the  table  stood  a 
large  basket,  filled  with  grapes ;  she  re- 
membered having  seen  that  basket  on  the 
piazza  the  night  before.  Effie  saw,  at  once, 
that  she  had  gone  in  her  sleep,  at  some  hour 
of  the  moonlight  night,  for  the  grapes  which 
had  tempted  her  so  much  in  the  daytime  ; 
and  she  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  crying, 
from  a  feeling  half  grief,  half  shame,  which 
she  could  hardlv  herself  understand.  Her 
first  thought  was  to  conceal  the  adventure 
from  everybody.  She  could  easily  wash  the 
mud  from  her  feet  and  ankles  ;  but  what 
was  she  to  do  with  her  soiled  night-dress, 
the  bed-clothes,  and  the  matting  ? 

She  must  tell  her  mother;  there  was  no 
help  for  it.    She  must  bear,  as  best  she 


EFFIE  grey's  sleep-walking.  113 

could,  her  father's  jokes,  and  the  laughter 
of  her  merry  brothers.  But  then  she  had 
the  grapes,  —  that  was  some  consolation. 

Early  in  the  winter  that  followed,  James 
Grey,  ^EfFie's  eldest  brother,  died  quite 
suddenly,  of  brain  fever,  caused,  it  was 
thought,  by  too  hard  study  in  preparing  for 
college  ;  for  James  was  a  remarkably  stu- 
dious and  ambitious  boy,  and  had  never 
been  very  strong.  He  had  been  lovely  in 
his  life,  and  in  his  death  he  was  mourned 
by  all  who  knew  him ;  but  his  father 
grieved  most  bitterly  of  all.  It  had  always 
been  said  that  Jamie  was  Judge  Grey's 
favorite  child.  I  do  not  know  how  that  was, 
but  it  surely  seemed  that  when  the  noble 
boy  was  called  away  into  "  the  better  land," 
his  father  must  go  too.  Day  and  night  he 
groaned  and  wept  for  his  dear  dead  son. 
He  neither  ate  nor  slept ;  he  seemed  not  to 
know  what  was  passing  around  him,  and  to 
have  almost  forgotten  that  he  had  yet  living 
children,  and  a  true,  loving  wife. 

A  few  months  before  this  son's  death, 


114       EFEIE  GKEY'S  SLEEP-WALKINa. 


Judge  Grey  had  taken  him  to  sit  to  a  good 
artist,  who  had  painted  a  fine  portrait  of 
him,  which  was  prettily  framed,  and  hung 
in  a  httle  parlor  where  the  family  met  for 
prayers,  and  where  they  could  look  at  it 
night  and  morning,  when  Jamie  should  be 
far  away  at  college.  Now  the  poor  father 
would  stand  before  this  picture  hour  after 
hour,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  the 
tears  slowly  sliding  down  his  cheeks  ;  and 
now  and  then  he  would  give  a  sigh, —  oh, 
so  deep  and  sorrowful !  At  last,  when  this 
had  continued  for  many  days,  Effie  went 
gently  up  to  him,  took  his  hand  in  hers,  and 
tried  to  lead  him  away ;  but  he  would  not 
go.  Then  her  mother  came,  and  wound  her 
arms  about  him,  and  pleaded  with  him,  for 
her  sake,  and  the  children's  sake,  to  stand 
no  longer  grieving  before  that  portrait ;  yet 
still  he  would  not  go. 

Late  that  night,  after  all  the  rest  of  the 
family  had  retired,  and  wept  themselves  to 
sleep,  he  stood  with  a  lamp  in  his  hand, 
gazing  on  the  likeness  of  his  lost  boy.  It 


EFFIE  grey's  SLEEP-WALKINa.  115 

was  hard'  to  say  good-night  to  that  smiling 
face,  for  there  was  no  more  any  good  night 
or  good  morning  for  him. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  family  came 
together,  what  was  their  surprise  to  find  a 
thick  veil  drawn  closely  over  Jamie's  por- 
trait !  Judge  Grey  was  much  agitated,  and 
asked  who  had  done  this.  Mrs.  Grey  kncAV 
nothing  of  it ;  but  when  Effie  was  ques- 
tioned, she  said,  timidly,  '^I  remember 
thinking,  last  night,  that  the  picture  should 
be  veiled,  a  little  while,  far  your  sake, 
father  ;  and  that  is  all  I  know  about  it." 

Mrs.  Grey  then  offered  to  remove  the 
veil ;  but  her  husband  said, 

' '  Let  it  remain,  Mary.  I  have  been  rightly 
reproved  for  my  selfish  grieving  ;  and  I 
will  not  look  on  that  dear  face  again  until 
I  can  say,  '  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord 
hath  taken  away;  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord.'  " 

As  month  after  month  went  by,  Judge 
Grey  grew  more  resigned  and  cheerful.  lie 
began,  at  last,  to  talk  freely  of  his  lost  son  ; 


116       EFFIE  grey's  sleep-walking. 


he  could  even  smile  at  the  recollection  of 
some  of  the  light-hearted  boy's  wild  tricks 
and  funny  sayings.  But  he  never  removed 
the  veil  from  the  portrait,  though  he  knew 
that  no  one  else  would  presume  to  take  it 
away.  He  feared  that  his  heart  was  not  yet 
strong  and  submissive  enough  to  look  calmly 
on  that  pleasant  face,  that  always  smiled  on 
his  tears.  i 

One  night,  early  in  June,  as  the  Greys 
were  all  standing  on  the  vine-shaded  piazza, 
in  the  moonlight,  listening  to  the  low  mur- 
mur of  the  brook  which  ran  near  the  door, 
and  breathing  in  the  fragrance  of  roses, 
EfFie  heard  her  father  say  to  her  mother, 
"  Do  you  remember,  Mary,  that  to-morrow 
will  be  Jamie's  birth-day  ?  He  would  have 
been  fifteen,  had  Grod  left  him  with  us. 
How  he  used  to  enjoy  a  night  like  this  ! 
and  he  had  a  real  girhsh  love  of  roses." 

"  But,  my  dear  husband,"  answered  Mrs. 
Grey,  ''we  know  there  is  no  lack  of  light 
and  flowers,  and  all  beautiful  things,  where 
our  Jamie  is  gone." 


EFFIE  grey's  sleep-walking.  117 

But  next  morning,  when  the  family  gath- 
ered together  in  the  little  parlor,  to  thank 
Grod  for  his  care  of  them  through  the  night, 
the  first  thing  that  met  the  eyes  of  parents 
and  children  was  Jamie's  portrait,  with  the 
dark  veil  taken  away,  and  a  beautiful  wreath 
of  roses  hanging  in  its  place  ! 

All  looked  at  Efi&e,  who  turned  pale,  then 
blushed  deeply,  and  burst  into  tears.  "  Did 
/  do  it,  mother?''  she  sobbed  out;  in- 
deed, indeed,  I  cannot  remember." 

"  I  think  you  must  have  done  it?  my  dear 
daughter,"  replied  Mrs.  Grey.  M 

^'Yes,  Effie,"  said  her  father,  folding 
her  in  his  arms,  it  was  you,  or  some  other 
angel." 

And  this  was  the  last  of  Effie  Grey's 
sleep-walking. 


Do  not  always  weep,  when  thinking 
Of  the  loved  ones  early  gone ; 

And  their  names  speak  not  so  sadly,  — 
Breathe  them  in  a  pleasant  tone. 


118       EFFIE  grey's  sleep-walking. 


Think  of  them  as  dear  lambs,  kindly 
Borne  away  from  storm  and  cold, 

By  the  tender  shepherd,  Jesus,  — 
Gathered  safely  to  the  fold. 


Think  not  of  the  dreary  graveyard, 
When  comes  on  the  wintry  even ;  — 

Think  how  beautiful  the  place  is, 
They  call  home,  and  we  call  heaven. 


Sweetest,  brightest  thoughts  weave  rouiid  them. 

When  their  faces  you  recall,  — 
Even  as  Effie  crowned  with  roses 

Jamie's  picture  on  the  walk 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL. 


Many  years  ago,  in  a  pleasant  village  of 
New  England,  lived  the  little  girl  whose  true 
story  I  am  about  to  relate,  — Lizzie  Stone, 
the  ofily  daughter  of  the  miller. 

Lizzie  was  a  child  whom  everybody  loved ; 
not  only  because  she  was  so  pretty,  lively, 
and  intelligent,  but  for  her  being  so  sweet, 
gentle,  and  peaceable,  — so  truly  good. 
Lizzie  had  two  brothers  a  few  years  older 
than  herself,  who  were  very  fond  of  her, 
and  of  whom  she  was  very  fond.  These 
three  children  always  went  to  school  and  to 
church  together,  and  played  in  perfect 
agreement. 

It  happened  that  one  sunny  autumn  after- 
noon they  had  a  visit  from  two  little  girls, 
their  cousins,  who  lived  about  a  mile  dis- 
tant. They  had  a  wild,  joyous  time  ;  they 
played  in  the  yard,  in  the  barn,  and  aU  over 


120  LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL. 

the  house.  Mrs.  Stone,  who  was  a  kind, 
pleasant  woman,  looked  on  and  laughed,  if 
she  did  not  mingle  in  their  sport.  She  got 
them  a  nice  early  tea  by  themselves  ;  and, 
when  the  visiters,  after  one  last  merry  game, 
were  about  leaving,  she  said  to  Lizzie, 

"  Your  brothers  will  go  home  with  Alice 
and  Celia.  You  may  go  with  them  as  far 
as  the  mill ;  but  be  sure  to  stop  there, 
and  come  home  with  your  father.'' 

As  the  cousins  set  out,  laughing  and  frol- 
icking along,  Mrs.  Stone  stood  in  the  little 
front  portico  of  her  cottage,  looking  after 
them,  as  they  went  down  the  lane,  and 
thinking  what  handsome,  and  happy,  and, 
above  all,  what  good  children  they  were. 
She  smiled  at  Lizzie's  affectionate  way  of 
taking  leave  of  her,  though  she  was  to  be 
gone  so  short  a  time.  Lizzie  never  parted 
from  her  mother,  even  for  a  half-hour,  with- 
out kissing  her  lovingly,  and  bidding  her 
good-by  in  a  voice  as  sweet  and  tender  as 
the  cooing  of  a  dove.  Now,  as  Mrs.  Stone 
went  into  the  house,  she  said  softly  to  her- 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL. 


121 


self,  It  is  nearly  ten  years  since  God  gave 
me  that  child,  and  she  has  never  yet  caused 
me  one  moment's  sorrow.'' 

The  children  played  so  much  along  the 
road,  and  stopped  so  often  to  pick  flowers 
and  berries,  that  it  was  nearly  dark  when 
they  reached  the  mill.  Then,  when  the 
girls  came  to  part,  they  had  yet  so  many 
things  to  tell  to  each  other,  so  many  invita- 
tions to  give,  so  many  good-by's  to  say,  it 
was  no  wonder  that  they  lingered  a  while. 

It  seemed  that  Lizzie  could  not  let  her 
cousins  go.  She  parted  from  them,  in  her 
loving  way,  so  many  times,  that  her  brothers 
grew  a  little  impatient,  and  George,  the 
eldest,  said,  '^Why,  sister,  I  don't  see  but 
that  Ned  and  I  will  have  to  help  you  in  your 
kissing,  or  you  '11  never  get  through." 

Then  Alice  and  Celia,  blushing  and  laugh- 
ing, broke  away  from  their  cousin,  and  ran 
fast  down  a  little  hill  towards  their  home. 
The  boys  soon  overtook  them  ;  and  Lizzie, 
after  watching  the  group  a  while,  and  think- 
ing how  good  was  God  to  give  her  such  amiable 


122  LIZZIE  IN  THE  mLL. 


cousins,  such  noble  brothers,  and  such  dear 
parents  to  love,  turned  and  went  into  the 
mill.  She  found  it  going,  and  was  almost 
frightened  by  the  din  it  made,  and  by  the 
darkness  ;  for  night  was  fast  coming  on. 
She  called  her  father's  name,  and  he  an- 
swered ;  but  the  machinery  made  so  much 
noise  that  she  did  not  hear.  Thinking  that 
he  had  already  gone,  she  turned  to  go  home 
alone.  She  took  a  way  she  had  often  safely 
taken,  over  the  flume,  by  the  great  water- 
wheel.  But  to-night  she  was  bewildered,  — 
lost  her  footing,  and  fell  off  on  to  the  wheel, 
which  whirled  her  down,  down,  crushing 
and  tearing  her  in  a  shocking  manner  !  It 
happened  that  just  at  that  moment  ^her 
father,  thinking  that  Lizzie  had  been  sent 
to  call  him  home,  stopped  the  mill,  and  be- 
gan to  search  for  her.  Led  by  her  cries,  he 
came  to  the  wheel,  and  there  found  what 
had  occurred.  ''Are  you  badly  hurt,  my 
daughter?''  he  asked,  in  great  grief  and 
terror.  ''Yes,  father.  I  seem  to  be  all 
crushed  to  pieces,  and  I  cannot  stu^ ;  but  I 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL.  123 


think  I  shall  live  till  you  get  me  out.  Leave 
me  here,  and  go  for  help." 

The  neighborhood  was  soon  roused,  and 
many  men  hurried,  with  saws  and  axes,  to 
the  mill.  But  they  found  that  only  one  or 
two  could  work  at  a  time  in  cutting  away 
the  strong,  heavy  timbers,  and  that  it  would 
be  some  hours  before  Lizzie  could  be  taken 
from  the  cruel  place  where  she  was  held  so 
fast,  and  crushed  so  dreadfully ;  and  they 
said  that  to  move  the  wheel  backward  or 
forward  might  kill  her  at  once. 

"When  Mrs.  Stone  came,  one  of  the  men 
let  down  a  light  into  the  wheel,  so  that  she 
could  see  her  poor  child.  "When  she  saw 
Lizzie's  white  face,  and  the  bleeding  arms 
held  toward  her,  she  shrieked  and  cried  bit- 
terly. But  Lizzie  called  up  to  her  as  sweetly 
and  cheerfully  as  she  had  ever  spoken  in 
her  life,  and  said,  Don't  cry,  mother! 
They  will  get  me  out  before  long  ;  keep  up 
good  courage,  and  pray  to  God  for  me." 

And  so  she  continued  to  talk,  hour  after 
hour,  while  the  men  kept  cutting  and  saw- 


124  LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL. 


ing  at  the  great  timbers :  so  she  cheered 
and  comforted  her  parents,  and  her  poor 
brothers,  when  they  too  came  to  the  mill. 

Once  her  voice  grew  very  low  and  in- 
distinct, —  then  it  ceased  altogether :  the 
doctor  looked  down,  and  said  she  had  fainted 
away,  and  they  sprinkled  water  upon  her. 
As  soon  as  she  revived,  she  began  again  to 
say  comforting  things,  and  to  beg  her  mother 
and  brothers  not  to  cry.  She  said  she  did 
not  suffer  so  much  pain  as  at  first,  and  that 
she  was  sure  she  should  live  to  be  carried 
home. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  last  tim- 
ber that  held  her  was  sawed  away,  and  a 
workman  lifted  her  gently  up,  and  laid  her 
in  her  father's  arms.  The  pain  of  being 
moved  caused  the  poor  child  to  faint  again, 
and  she  did  not  revive  until  she  had  been 
carried  home.  When  she  opened  her  eyes, 
she  found  herself  on  her  own  little  bed,  with 
her  dear  father  and  mother  and  brothers  at 
her  side. 

The   doctor  carefully  dressed  Lizzie's 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL.  125 


wounds,  and  gave  her  some  opium  to  make 
her  sleep  ;  but  he  told  her  father  and  mother 
that  she  could  not  possibly  get  well.  When 
he  heard  the  dreadful  words,  Mr.  Stone 
groaned,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands  ;  and,  for  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Stone 
leaned  her  head  on  her  husband's  shoulder, 
and  cried.  Then,  lifting  her  eyes,  and 
clasping  her  hands,  she  said,  "  Thy  will,  oh 
Lord,  be  done  ! and  went  and  sat  down 
calmly  by  Lizzie's  side,  and  watched  her 
till  she  slept. 

The  poor  little  girl  remained  sleeping  most 
of  the  next  day.  She  would  often  wake,  and 
ask  for  water  ;  but  she  then  seemed  hardly  to 
know  where  she  was,  or  who  was  with  her. 
Her  cousins,  Alice  and  Celia,  came  to  see 
her ;  but  she  did  not  recognize  them,  and 
they  went  away,  sobbing  bitterly. 

Early  in  the  night,  however,  she  awoke, 
and  seemed  better.  She  knew  all  about 
her,  and  smiled  on  them,  but  said  that  she 
must  leave  them  very  soon.  She  told  her 
father  that  she  wanted  to  hear  him  pray  once 


126 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL. 


more  ;  and  Mr.  Stone  knelt  down  by  her 
bedside,  and  asked  God  to  take  safely  home 
the  little  daughter  he  had  given  them,  and 
thanked  him  for  leaving  her  with  them  so 
long.     Then  Lizzie  said  to  her  mother. 

Will  you  sing  me  just  one  verse  of  the 
hymn  I  love  so  much,  'Jesus  sought  me  '  V 
Her  mother  tried,  but  she  could  not  sing 
for  weeping;  and  Lizzie  said,  ''Never 
mind,  —  where  I  am  going,  there  is  beautiful 
singing.  Yet  it  seems  to  me  I  shall  hear 
no  voice  so  sweet  as  yours,  mamma.  "Why 
do  you  cry?  Only  think,  mamma,  if  I 
should  live,  now,  how  crooked  and  sickly 
I  should  be.  I  might  be  a  poor  hunchback, 
and  give  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  sorrow 
to  you  all.  Will  it  not  be  better  to  bury  up 
this  crushed  body,  and  let  the  pleasant  grass 
grow  over  it,  and  have  a  new  and  glorious 
body,  such  as  the  angels  have  ? 

As  she  spoke  these  words,  she  smiled,  and 
did  not  weep  ;  but  when,  afterwards,  she 
asked  for  a  faithful  house-dog,  and  her 
pretty  Maltese  kitten,  and  they  were  brought 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL.  127 


to  her,  she  burst  into  tears.  '^Good-by,  old 
Bose !  good-by,  Kitty!''  she  said.  "I 
cry,  mamma,  to  part  from  these,  because  I 
never,  never  shall  see  them  again  ;  for  they 
have  no  souls,  poor  things !  But  you  and 
papa  will  come  to  heaven  before  many  years; 
and  you,  too,  brothers,  if  you  are  good  boys/' 

A  little  while  after  this,  she  said,  Geor- 
gie,  give  my  love  to  Alice  and  Celia,  and 
tell  them  I  am  glad  I  kissed  them  so  many 
times  last  night.  Eddie,  take  care  of  my 
flowers  :  and,  boys,  don't  miss  me  too  much 
in  your  play," 

After  lying  very  quiet  for  some  moments, 
she  again  spoke,  and  said, 

''Mamma,  are  the  shutters  open,  and 
has  the  mornhig  come  very  brightly?  " 

''No,  my  daughter,"'  her  mother  an- 
swered, "  it  is  still  dark  night." 

"0,  then,"  said  Lizzie,  "  it  must  be  the 
windows  of  God's  beautiful  palace  I  see, 
with  the  pleasant  light  shining  through.  I 
am  almost  there  !  Good-by,  mamma,  and 
papa,  and  brothers,  good-by  !  "  and,  with  a 
12 


128 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL. 


smile  spread  over  her  face,  Lizzie  stretched 
out  her  arms,  looked  upward,  and  so  died ! 

When  Lizzie  lay  in  her  coffin,  that  smile 
was  on  her  sweet  face  still,  —  brighter  and 
purer  than  the  white  roses  that  lay  upon  her 
pillow,  —  and  Mrs.  Stone  tried  not  to  let  her 
tears  fall  upon  it ;  for  she  said,  God  has 
taken  back  a  little  angel  he  lent  to  me  for  a 
few  years,  and  why  should  I  weep  for  my 
happy,  happy  child  ? 


LIZZIE  GONE. 

Lizzie  lieth  cold  and  still, 
In  the  church-yard  on  the  hill, 
Where  the  winter  winds  shall  rave. 
All  night  long,  around  her  grave ;  — 
Poor  little  Lizzie ! 

She  '11  not  breathe  the  airs  of  spring. 
Nor  hear  the  tuneful  robin  sing ; 
She  '11  not  feel  the  sun's  bright  glow, 
Nor  see  the  early  violets  blow ;  — 
Poor  little  Lizzie ! 

She  '11  not  join  her  brothers'  play. 
Through  the  sunny  days  of  May ; 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL. 


Nor  mark  how  God  his  love  discloses, 
In  the  coming  forth  of  roses ;  — 
Poor  little  Lizzie ! 

She  '11  glean  the  yellow  grain  no  more, 
Nor  taste  the  orchard's  ripened  store, 
Nor  see  the  leaves,  in  autumn  hours, 
Come  down  in  gold  and  crimson  showers ;  - 
Poor  little  Lizzie ! 

She  '11  not  run  to  meet,  again, 
Her  dear  tired  father  in  the  lane ; 
Nor  hear  her  mother's  Sabbath-singing, 
Nor  the  church-bells'  solemn  ringing ;  — 
Poor  little  Lizzie ! 

She  hath  left  the  love  and  mirth, 
All  the  sights  and  sounds  of  earth, 
Long  before  her  life's  bright  noon,  — 
Must  she  go  to  sleep  so  soon  ?  — 
Poor  little  Lizzie ! 

Say  not  so ;  for  cold  and  still. 
In  the  church-yard  on  the  hill. 
Only  her  crushed  body  lies ;  — 
Far  in  holy  Paradise 

Lives  the  soul  of  -Lizzie ' 

Where  the  fair  and  sweet-breathed  flowers 
Die  not  in  the  pleasant  bowers ; 


LIZZIE  IN  THE  MILL. 


And  the  lovely  time  of  roses 
Never  fades  and  never  closes,  — 
There  dwelleth  Lizzie ! 

•Where  the  tuneful  waters  flow, 
Conies  no  night,  nor  winter's  snow,  — 
For  the  sunshine  all  abroad 
Is  the  constant  smile  of  God,  — 
There  dwelleth  Lizzie ! 

Where  the  seraphs,  winged  and  crowned. 
With  their  harps  make  sweetest  sound,  — 
Where  the  blessed  angels  sing 
Glad  hosannas  to  their  King, — 
There  singeth  Lizzie ! 

She  will  feel  no  cruel  pain. 
She  will  never  cry  again ; 
For  the  Lord,  once  crucified, 
Who  in  bitter  anguish  died,* 

Comforts  little  Lizzie. 

Leaning  on  his  tender  breast, 
Who  the  little  children  blessed,  — 
Waiting  till  her  dear  ones  come. 
Till  the  Father  calls  them  home,  — 
*  Happy  angel  Lizzie ! 


JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-O'LANTERNS. 

Near  the  small  village  of  H  ,  in  one 

of  our  Western  States,  may  be  seen  an  old 
fort,  built  by  the  French,,  at  the  time  of  the 
French  and  Indian  war,  many  years  ago. 
This  stands  on  a  small  hill,  near  the  turn- 
pike ;  and,  as  the  walls  are  much  broken 
down,  and  grown  over  with  grassland  shrubr 
bery,  it  is  a  very  pretty  place,  indeed. 

Some  years  since,  there  came  to  reside  in 
H  —  an  Englishman  by  the  name  of  Hen- 
derson. He  was  a  hard,  severe-looking 
man,  whom  nobody  knew  anything  about, 
except  that  he  seemed  to  possess  consider- 
able property,  that  he  had  a  meek,  sad-faced 
wife,  and  four  very  idle,  good-for-nothing 
boys.  There  was  also  in  his  family  a  dark, 
slender  child,  about  eleven  years  of  age, 
who  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  an  adopted  son. 
This  John  Elliot  proved  to  be  a  very  strange 


132     JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-o'lANTERNS. 

Iboy ,  —  almost  as  sliy  and  wild  as  a  joutig 
savage.  Nobody  appeared  to  care  for  him  ; 
he  was  seldom  ^en  with  the  other  members 
of  the  family  J  but  spent  most  of  his  time 
in  the  fields  and  woods,  coarsely,  if  not 
shabbily  dressed,  and  often  without  shoes 
or  hat.  He  was  never  seen  rambling  or  at 
play  with  the  Henderson  boys,  who,  it  was 
said,  were  far  from  kind  to  him  ;  and  their 
father  was  known  to  treat  him  very  cruelly. 
He  was  never  sent  to  school,  or  to  church ; 
it  may  be  that  he  could  not  have  been  per- 
suaded to  go,  he  was  so  exceedingly  shy 
always.  He  never  could  be  prevailed  upon 
to  enter  a  neighbor's  house ;  and  seemed 
afraid  to  converse  many  minutes  at  a  time 
with  any  one,  though  he  would  answer  very 
civilly  any  question  put  to  him.  He  never 
complained  of  the  hard  treatment  he  had  at 
home,  but  surely  his  sad  face  and  neglected 
look  were  complaint  enough. 

Every  one  who  heard  him  speak  noticed 
that  he  had  a  voice  of  remarkable  sweet- 
ness ;  and  he  seemed  to  have  a  talent  for 


JACK  AND  HIS  JACK- O' LANTERNS.  133 

music  ;  for  he  would  sing,  when  he  thought 
himself  quite  alone,  wild,  mournful,  com- 
plaining airs  ;  but  nobody  could  ever  catch 
the  sense  of  the  words,  and  very  likely  they  * 
had  little  meaning. 

John,  or  Jack^  as  the  Hendersons  always 
called  him,  seemed  to  take  to  the  fort  from 
the  first.  He  spent  hour  after  hour  there, 
searching  for  the  'stone  arrow-heads,  pipes,  • 
and  beads,  of  the  Indians,  and  rusty  buckles, 
bullets,  and  bayonets,  of  the  French  soldiers. 
At  one  time  he  dug  up  an  old  iron-hilted 
sword,  with  only  about  an  inch  of  the  point 
broken  off;  this  he  hung  at  his  side,  by  a 
leathern  belt,  and  for  months  was  never  seen 
without  it. 

It  happened  that  the  summer  Jack  came 
to  H  ,  Miss  Ellen  Hay  ward,  the  minis- 
ter's daughter,  a  very  sweet  young  lady,  was 
in  delicate  health,  and  was  in  the 'habit  of 
walking  every  morning.  Often  she  went  to 
the  fort,  and,  after  climbing  the  little  hill, 
would  sit  down  to  rest  on  the  grassy  em- 
bankment. 


134     JACK  AND  Hfe  JACK-o'lANTERNS. 


After  a  long  time,  she  became  aequaintecl 
with  Jack,  who  interested  her  very  much. 

Once  she  askei.-^him  to  feell.her  about  the 
He  dersons  and  himself.  He  looked  all 
^  around  them,  as  though  he  feared  some  one 
mi^ht  overhear  him,  before  he  answered. 
He  said  he  believed  that  Mr.  Henderson  was 
not  nearly  related  to  him  ;  that  once,  when 
he  was  very  small,  he  lived  in  a  beautiful 
home,  where  there  never  was  any  winter, 
but  where  the  flowers  were  always  bright, 
and  the  trees  green  ;  that  he  remembered  a 
tall  man,  in  soldier's  dress,  his  papa,  and  a 
sweet,  kind  Itoatnma.  He  said  he  recol- 
lected that  one  morning  somebody  came  to 
him,  and  told  him  his  mamma  Avas  dead^^d 
he  was  never  to  see  her  anymore  ;  and  that 
afterwards  his  papa  took  him  to  a  ship,  and, 
after  kissing  him  many  times,  left  him  there 
with  a  nurse  ;  and  that  they  sailed  day  after 
day,  over  the  sea,  till  they  reached  England, 
when  Mr.  Henderson  came  on  board,  and 
took  them  to  his  Tiome.  The  next  thing 
he  remembered  was,  that  one  morning  his 


JACK  AND  HIS  JACK- O' LANTERNS.  135 

good  nurse  kisrsed  him,  and  cried  over  him  a 
long  time,  and  said  they  were  going  to  send 
ker  away  ;  she  Ivent,  and  he  never  saw,  h^r 
again.  Then  he  Avas  sent  to  a  great  J\^y 
school  for  same  years  ;  then  they  all  came  to 
America,  where  they  Jiad  moved  from  plac*'^ 
to  place,  till  they  settled  at  II  . 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  said  Miss  Hay  ward,  \\^it\i 
Jack  had  finished  his  little  story..' "'  y^PU 
have  had  a  hard  time,  so  far  ;  but  cheermp  ! 
your  father  will  come  for  you,  yet." 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Jack,  throwing  himself 
down  on  the  ground,  and  hiding  his  face  in 
the  long  gras^  ;  he  will  nvever  come  so  far 
for  me,  —  he  Avill  never  find  me.  And  then 
KijV^fraid  he  ha^s  been  killed,  long  ago, — 
my  brave  soldiet-papa  ! 

''I  think,"  said  Miss  Hay  ward,  "that 
you  must  have  bejen  born  in  India,  and  that 
your  fixther  was  an  English  officer." 

''I  think  so,  too,"  said  Jack;  ''but  I 
never  could  get  anybody  to  tell  me  anything 
about  it.  I  know  my  ptipa  was  a  British 
soldier  ;  for  he  wore  a  red  coat,  and  because 
13 


136     JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-o'lANTERNS. 
V 

I  love  swords,  bayonets,  forts,  and  all  such 
things,  and  think  '  God  save  the  King '  a 
braver  fighting  tune  than  '  Yankee  Doodle/ 

The  next  day  Miss  Hayward  brought  Jack 
that  sweet  East-Indian  story,  by  Mrs.  Sher- 
wood, called  ''Little  Henry  and  his  Bear- 
er/' Scarcely  had  she  read  a  page  to  him, 
before  he  cried  out,  joyfully, 

''  0,  I  had  just  such  a  home  as  that !  I 
had  just  such  a  bearer  as  l^psy,  who  car- 
ried me  on  his  back  everywhere.  0,  I  to  as 
born  in  India  !  —  I  was  born  in  India  !  " 

And  Jack  was  right.  The  true  story  of 
John  Charles  Elliot,  as  it  afterwards  came 
out,  was  this.  He  was  the  only  child  of 
English  parents,  and  was  born  at  a  miUtary 
station  near  Calcutta.  He  was  a  delicate 
boy,  about  five  years  old,  when  his  mother 
died  ;  and  his  father.  Captain  Elliot,  fearing 
that  he  could  not  live  in  the  climate  of  India, 
sent  him  to  England,  and  placed  him  under 
the  care  of  a  cousin  and  an  old  school-mate 
of  his  own,  Mr.  Henderson ;  for  it  happened 
that  neither  the  father  nor  the  mother  of  the 


JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-O' LANTERNS.  137 

boy  had  any  near  relations  then  living  in 
England.  Captain  Elliot  had  great  con- 
fidence in  Mr.  Henderson;  he  made  him 
the  guardian  of  his  son,  and  placed  in  his 
hands  little  John's  entire  fortune,  left  to  him 
by  his  mother.  But  the  frank,  honest  sol- 
dier was  deceived  in  his  cousin,  who  was  a 
wicked,  dishonest  man.  All  the  while  that 
Mr.  Henderson  was  writing  pleasant,  friendly 
letters  to  Captain  Elliot,  far  in  India,  he  was 
treating  very  ill  his  lonely  little  boy,  and 
even  using  for  himself  and  ||s  family  the 
money  rightly  belonging  to  J ohn. 

He  sent  away  the  lad's  nurse,  and  forbade 
every  one  in  the  family  to  talk  with  him 
about  India,  for  fear  that,  when  he  was  old 
enough,  he  would  write  to  his  father,  and 
tell  him  how  he  was  treated. 

When  Mr.  Henderson  left  England  for 
Ajnerica,  with  his  family,  it  was  because  he 
feared  that  Captain  Elliot  was  coming  home, 
and  would  find  out  what  a  villain  he  had 
been  for  so  many  years.  Of  course,  he  did 
not  write  to  the  captain  that  he  Avas  about 


138     JACK  AND  HIS  JACK- O' LANTERNS. 

to  leave  England  ;  and  after  he  had  left,  he 
did  not  write  at  all :  so,  for  two  years,  poor 
Captain  Elliot  heard  not  a  word  from  his 
little  son. 

Jack  was  not  altogether  sad.  He  had  a 
quiet  love  of  mischief  and  fun,  which  showed 
itself  in  an  amusing  way,  the  summer  he 

spent  at  H  .    It  chanced  that  some  silly 

men  got  it  into  their  heads  that  there  was 
money  buried  somewhere  in  the  old  fort, 
and  went  to  work  digging  for  it. 

Though,  like  Jack,  they  found  nothing 
but  arrow-heads,  pipe-bowls,  and  pieces  of 
old  guns  and  swords,  they  were  not  dis- 
couraged ;  for  they  had  consulted  a  famous 
fortune-teller,  who,  after  looking  very  sol- 
emnly in  a  blue  tea-cup,  for  ten  minutes,  told 
them  that  Somewheres  inside  of  the  fort, 
the  French  sartin  buried  five  great  iron  pots 
full  of  gold  and  silver.''  She  told  them 
that  they  must  always  begin  to  dig  just  at 
midnight.  And  so,  from  twelve  till  the 
cock  crew  for  daylight,  a  watcher  might  see 


JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-O' LANTERNS.  139 


their  lanterns  burning  on  old  Fort  Hill,  and 
hear  the  sound  of  their  pickaxes  and  spades. 

Well,  one  evening  Jack  went  alone  to  the 
fort,  carrying  a  spade  and  an  iron  dinner- 
pot.  He  then  dug  a  new  hole,  very  near 
the  last  place  where  the  men  had  been 
digging,  pressed  the  pot  down  into  the  earth 
y/ith  all  his  strength,  so  that  it  would  leave 
a  deep  impression,  then  took  it  up,  hid  it  in 
the  bushes,  and  hid  himself  there  until  the 
gold-diggers  came.  Presently,  he  heard 
one  of  the  men  call  out,  "  Hallo  !  —  some 
thief  has  been  here,  and  stole  one  of  our 
money-pots !  Now,  boys,  for  the  other 
four,  —  they  must  be  somewhere  near  !  " 

As  you  may  suppose,  they  went  to  work 
harder  than  ever  ;  and  it  was  broad  daylight 
before  they  gave  up,  shouldered  pickaxe 
and  spade,  and  went  home. 

The  next  day.  Jack  told  his  friend  Miss 
Hayward  of  the  joke  he  had  played  off  on 
the  foolish  fellows  who  were  spoiling  the 
fort  by  digging  such  great  holes  in  the 
ground.    The  story  was  soon  all  over  town, 


140     JACK  AND  HIS  JACK- o' LANTERNS. 

and  the  gold-diggers  were  completely 
laughed  out  of  their  folly. 

Close  behind  the  fort  lay  a  large  marsh ; 
and,  in  the  dark  nights  of  the  autumn,  this 
was  all  lit  up  with  brilliant  jack-o'lanterns. 
They  even  came  pouring  over  the  walls,  and 
danced  about  in  the  old  fort  as  though  they 
were  having  rare  frolics  together.  Strange 
to  say.  Jack  Elliot— who,  people  began  to 
think,  was  not  in  his  right  mind  —  might 
often  be  seen  with  them  there  ;  —  dancing 
with  the  merriest,  chasing  the  swiftest,  call- 
ing to  them  as  though  they  were  real  play- 
mates, and  singing  more  wildly  than  ever. 

One  night  in  October,  as  a  traveller  on 
horseback  was  passing  the  fort,  he  observed 
the  jack-o'lanterns,  who  were  out  in  great 
numbers.  He  checked  his  horse  to  watch 
their  shining  play,  and  presently  he  saAV  a 
slight,  dark  figure  moving  about  with  them. 
It  was  Jack,  at  his  nightly  frolic  with  his 
friends.  The  gentleman  felt  curious  to  know 
what  that  strange  boy  was  about ;  so  dis- 
mounted, went  softly  up  the  hill,  and  hid 


JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-O' LANTERNS.  141 

among  the  bushes,  near  where  Jack  was 
shouting,  laughing,  and  striving  in  vain  to 
catch  the  dancing  lights  in  his  arms.  Sud- 
denly the  boy  began  singing,  in  his  sweet, 
wild  voice,  such  words  as. 

Dance,  dance  around  me  !    Don't  fly  so  high  ! 

Don't  run  away,  now,  be  good,  and  come  back  ! 
Bright  jack-o'lanterns  !  merry  jack-o'lanterns  ! 

Only  play-fellows  of  poor  little  Jack  !  " 

That  voice  !  oh,  it  sounded  to  the  stran- 
ger like  the  voice  of  his  dear  young  wife, 
dead  these  many  years ;  and  like  the  voice 
of  her  boy  and  his,  sent  away  from  him 
long  ago,  and  for  whom  he  had  sought  vainly 
in  England  and  America,  — for.  the  stranger 
was  Captain  Elliot ! 

He  now  sprang  forward,  and  caught  Jack 
in  his  arms,  saying,  ''0  my  boy!  my  dear 
boy !  thank  God,  I  have  found  you  at  last ! 

Jack  was  never  knowm  to  be  frightened, 
or  even  startled ;  so  now  he  said,  quite 
calmly,  but  joyfully,  '^Papa!  my  brave 
soldierrpapa !  is  it  you  ?  I  thought  you 
newr  were  coming,  —  never,  never  ! 


142     JACK  AND  HIS  JACK- 0 'LANTERNS. 

In  a  short  time  there  were  great  changes 
with  the  Hendersons.  They  were  obUged  to 
give  up  the  little  that  now  remained  of  John 
Elliot's  property,  and  to  begin  to  live  like 
poor  people,  as  they  were.  For  the  sake 
of  Mrs.  Henderson,  who  had  been  as  kind 
to  John  as  she  dared  to  be.  Captain  Elliot 
did  not  punish  her  husband  as  severely  as 
he  deserved ;  but  everybody  despised  and 
shunned  the  family,  as  long  as  they  remained 

in  H  .    It  would  take  me  a  long  time 

to  tell  just  how  Captain  Elliot  found  his 
son  ;  —  how  he  followed  Mr.  Henderson 
from  England  to  America,  and  tracked  him 
from  state  to  state,  and  town  to  town,  till 
he  reached  that  little  Aillage  in  the  West. 

Captain  Elliot  was  a  tall,  soldier-like  per- 
son, still  very  handsome,  though  much  sun- 
burned, and  beginning  to  show  a  few  white 
locks  in  the  black  curls  around  his  forehead. 
He  had  left  the  army,  and  said  he  intended 
to  return  to  England,  and  go  to  live  with 
his  son  on  some  property  of  his  own  in  the 
country. 


JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-O' LANTERNS.  143 

It  was  noticed  that  Jack  did  not  rest  till 
he  brought  his  father  acquainted  with  his 
only  friend.  Miss  Hayward,  the  minister's 
daughter ;  and  it  was  also  noticed  that  this 
pretty  girl  seemed  to  please  the  father  full 
as  well  as  the  son.  Soon  the  three  might 
often  be  seen  walking  together  to  the  old 
fort,  —  sometimes  on  jack-o'lantern  nights. 
Then  people  began  to  say,  "  I  wonder  what 
that  Captain  Elliot  stays  here  so  long  for  ? 
His  business  is  all  done  ;  and  it 's  getting 
rather  late  in  the  season  to  cross  the  ocean." 
And  one  good,  careful,  tea-drinking  old 
lady  said. 

It 's  well  Ellen  Hay  ward  has  got  over 
her  last  spring's  sickness,  or  she'd  run  the 
risk  of  catching  her  death-cold,  in  taking  so 
many  evening  walks." 

One  morning,  early  in  November,  Captain 
Elliot  said  to  John,  My  son,  put  on  your 
best  suit  of  clothes  ;  I  want  you  to  go  to 
church  with  me." 

To  church,  papa  ?  *'  said  John  ;  ^Svhy, 
.it  is  n't  Sunday." 


144     JACK  AND  HIS  JACK-o'lANTERNS, 

''I  know  that/'  answered  Ms  father; 
^'but  if  I  go  up  there  this  morning,  the 
good  minister  will  give  his  daughter  Ellen 
to  me,  for  my  wife,  and  your  mother ;  and 
we  may  take  her  with  us  to  England." 

0  papa,  how  glad  I  am  !  "  cried  John  ; 
''you  did  this  all  to  make  me  happy,  —  did 
you  not  ?  "  Captain  Elliot  laughed,  as  he 
answered,  ''  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  quite  so 
good  as  that.  I  own  I  want  Miss  Hay  ward 
to  finish  taming  my  young  savage ;  hut 
then  I  want  her  full  as  much  for  myself. 
She  is  a  noble  girl !  I  think,  John,  that 
she  looks  very  much  as  your  mother  did.'' 

As  John  Charles  Elliot  took  his  sweet 
one  friend,  his  new  mamma,  with  him  to 
England,  there  was  nobody  to  mourn  for 

him  when  he  went  from  H  ;  in  fact, 

nobody  missed  him  much.  One  would  have 
thought  that  the  jack-o'lanterns  might  have 
been  sorry  for  his  going;  but  even  they 
made  light  of  it,  and  that  very  night  danced 
away  as  merrily  as  ever. 


PRESERVATIOf\i  pp^FVl^ 


